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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25601467">Trust Fall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae'>jessalae</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>For You, I Would Ruin Myself [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Intense cuddling, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Sexual Abuse, Porn with Feelings, Rape Recovery, Re-Learning to Trust, Self-Loathing, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Truth Serum, big dick, discussion of attempted suicide, give quentin coldwater what he wants ffs, seriously though the slooooooowest of burns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:28:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>46,004</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25601467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I don’t want to push you too hard," Eliot adds. "The worst thing I could possibly do would be to rush you and fuck this up so bad it can't be un-fucked."</p><p>"The worst thing you could possibly do would be to give up on me," Quentin says.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fen/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>For You, I Would Ruin Myself [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>188</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ch 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>One million billion thanks to my excellent beta M. You are a gentlenonny and a scholar for helping me whip this behemoth into shape.</p><p>Overall Work Content Notes: references to past rape and sexual abuse; descriptions of panic attacks/trigger responses; discussion of a past suicide attempt; victim blames themselves for their abuse</p><p>Entirely ignores the second half of Season 4 and everything beyond.</p><p>This is a sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040596">Bargaining</a> (NOTES for rape/noncon and graphic violence), but it can also stand alone if you'd rather not read that. I've put a summary in the endnotes so you have the info you need if you'd rather skip it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eliot spends the first night of being back in charge of his body in Margo's arms, in an upstairs side bedroom of the incredibly nice penthouse apartment the gang has somehow ended up with, mostly crying. He pauses every once in a while to drink water, when Margo reminds him he actually has to now. She doesn't say much, that first night, until he finally feels like every bit of poison the Monster left in his veins has been let out through his eyeballs and moves on to just breathing, shuddering. Then she kisses him on the forehead for the umpteenth time, tightens her arms around him, and starts to tell him about the funniest parts of the weird shit that's happened since he's been gone.</p>
<p>He snorts, a couple times. Laughing is beyond him, at least for the night. But he appreciates learning about her alternate life as HBIC of a fashion magazine, and her flipping her shit on the Alpaca Queen, and the flurry of bunnies she and Julia sent back and forth, planning, until said bunnies started just telling them to fuck off in increasingly creative language instead of carrying their messages. Nothing has been normal while he's been trapped in his own head, which, in its own way, is very normal.</p>
<p>The sky outside is the light yellow of sunrise by the time she finally breaks down herself. "You motherfucker," she says into Eliot's hair. "I thought you were fucking <em>dead</em>. I thought <em>I</em> was fucking dead. I thought about having to go the rest of my fucking life without you, and I just-- I don't know how I could. I'm so fucking glad Coldwater figured out you were alive in there."</p>
<p>"I am too," Eliot says, heart aching at the memory of the stunned look on Quentin's face the first time he had broken through to the surface. Would it have been better if he hadn't done that? If they'd just let the Monster keep his body and sent it back to prison? Would he have known the difference?</p>
<p>"I'll give him this, he did not fucking give up on you, not for a second. The boy's got a serious pair of tits on him."</p>
<p>"Did you know?" Eliot asks, dreading the answer. "About--" he can't finish, swallowing hard.</p>
<p>Margo stiffens, then drops her face to his shoulder. "I tried not to," she says, miserably. "It had already been going on for a while, when I realized, and then I-- we would never have had time to figure out how to get rid of the Monster, otherwise. He saved a lot of people, El." She sniffles. "He saved <em>you</em>."</p>
<p>She's quiet for a second, then says, "I told myself I'd do the same, if I had to. I don't know if that's actually true."</p>
<p>"I wouldn't want you to, I would never--" Eliot clutches her tighter. "I wish he hadn't."</p>
<p>"It was the only way--"</p>
<p>"It wasn't worth it," Eliot says, fiercely. "You saw the way he looked at me, he couldn't fucking <em>stand up</em> he was so scared-- there is no way, <em>no way</em> I am worth that."</p>
<p>"Shut the fuck up," Margo says. "Shut your fucking bitch mouth. You are because we say you are. You are to us." Her voice is shaking.</p>
<p>Eliot falls silent. He thinks tears would be starting in the corners of his eyes again, if he had any left in him. He can't believe, <em>cannot</em> believe he deserves this kind of love. But he knows Margo isn't in the mood for arguing, so he just presses his face into her chest, and closes his eyes, and eventually falls asleep.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>By day three, Eliot feels like he’s started doing the bare minimum of becoming himself again. He's re-learned that he actually does need to eat, drink, and use the bathroom, after his long meaningless stretch of non-time where those things weren't necessary and he kind of forgot about them. He hasn't tried any magic yet, on Margo's advice (something something ambient is too low, Kady is leading a revolution to fix it, just let her do her thing), and anyway it seems like it'll be enough work to just get the non-magical parts of his life somewhat back in order. He's built his whole adult life around a very specific image of himself, and every part of his presentation and appearance were painstakingly crafted to support that image. Time to start putting Eliot together again.</p>
<p>He doesn't know <em>what</em> the Monster did with his hair, but it certainly didn't keep up his usual styling routine, so that's agenda item number one. He bribes his way to the front of his stylist's months-long backlog, making excuses about a long illness, not contagious, just devastating, he barely even feels like himself anymore, you know? Step two is getting his wardrobe back, gorgeous shirts and ties and soft silks and wonderful colors. He wants to literally burn the couple of truly horrendous t-shirts (t-shirts!) the Monster left around, but Margo convinces him to just shred them with scissors instead of risking setting off the fire alarm, perhaps correctly guessing that he would want to watch them smolder as long as possible.</p>
<p>Eliot feels like he can look in the mirror again, once those basics are taken care of. And Margo says maybe it could help Quentin, too-- Quentin, who Eliot has avoided like the plague, because what the fuck do you say? Why is he even still here, where they can so easily run into each other? Or, no, Eliot's the one who should go, the one who should take himself out of the equation. But Margo won't let him, and weirdly Julia (the Margo to Quentin's Eliot, it seems, and fucking thank God she exists) doesn't think he should go either.</p>
<p>Quentin has been out and about in the penthouse since day two, surprisingly, napping on the couch, eating lunch at the kitchen island. Reading an endless stream of paperbacks, side by side with Julia, who is slowly but surely re-building her spark of goddess power and immersing herself in theoretical treatises on magic in the meantime. Eliot spots them from the doorway of his bedroom, sometimes, when he slips out as quickly as possible to grab whatever he needs so he can hide some more. He loves their little nerd symbiosis, clearly built on a foundation of years and years of shared experiences and inside jokes. </p>
<p>He's careful, but Quentin still occasionally notices him, and the flash of happy-terror-love-grief across his face, the little jolt of his body, is sickeningly painful. So he does his best to be invisible, as strange as that is for him.</p>
<p>He's just gotten back from another excursion to rescue a few decent pairs of shoes from a storage unit he hasn't paid for in months, whoops, good thing the wards kept the landlord from remembering and auctioning it off, and is making a beeline for the safety of his room when Quentin says, "Eliot," from the living room, and he freezes. He turns wordlessly, trying to keep a calm face even though his heart is beating wildly. </p>
<p>Q is watching him with soft eyes, although his jaw is tight, and he's clutching Julia's hand. "Would you stop sneaking around here, please?" he asks. "You're acting like a spooked horse. It's weird."</p>
<p>"Sorry," Eliot says, gutted. The first thing Quentin’s really said to him, and it’s to ask him to leave. Eliot can’t blame him, though. "Margo says she can take me back to Fillory in a couple of days, she just has to work some things out with the council. I'll be out of your hair."</p>
<p>"No, that's the opposite of what I meant," Quentin says firmly. "I don't want you gone. I just want you--" he pauses, clearly chewing on the inside of his lip. "Not scared of me," he finishes.</p>
<p>"I'm not--" Eliot starts to lie, then catches himself. Honesty. He made himself that promise, made it to memory-Quentin as well. "I'm scared of hurting you even more. By being around."</p>
<p>Quentin takes a deep breath. "You won't," he says. "I mean it, you won't. I actually want to see you. <em>You</em> you."</p>
<p>Eliot eyes the way his shoulders have started to shake, just having this conversation from ten feet away. "I don't know--"</p>
<p>"I do," Quentin interrupts. His teeth chatter a bit, and he closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths, just until they stop. "It's like," he starts, eyes still closed. "It's like if you're a kid and you think there's a monster in the closet, just telling yourself that there isn't one doesn't help at all. You have to turn on the light and open the door to really see there's nothing there. I lived with-- the Monster, for so long. If I don't see you, it's harder to convince myself it's gone for good."</p>
<p>Eliot nods slowly. This, this is something he can do. He can be himself for Quentin. Probably. Being himself is such an active process, he knows how to go through the motions of it even when he feels sick about it. He realizes Quentin can't actually see him nodding, and says, "Okay, yeah. I can do that. I'll stop sneaking around."</p>
<p>"Good," Quentin says, opening his eyes and smiling at him, just a little. Eliot's heart aches. "And I want to-- try. Something. Once I get my body to figure out the Monster's gone."</p>
<p>Eliot's heart aches even harder. "Something?"</p>
<p>Quentin nods silently for a moment. "Being friends," he says finally, "At least. Hopefully-- more. If you still..." he trails off.</p>
<p>"I do, I do still," Eliot says frantically, shocked into pure, open honesty. "Fuck, Q, I love you." He realizes he's said it in front of Julia, the first time he's said it in front of anyone, and weirdly doesn't care. She's smiling, anyway, a little sideways smile as she pretends to read her book, but she doesn't look surprised.</p>
<p>"Me too," Quentin says. Eliot is fine with that. That's more than he deserves, if that's as much as Quentin can handle, now and forever. </p>
<p>He doesn't like the way Quentin's teeth have started chattering again, though, so he says, "I'm going to give you a break, get some rest. Just-- yell, if you want me."</p>
<p>"Will do," Quentin says, and Eliot's heart flips over at the way he manages to smile even through his shaking.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ch 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even once they can be in a room alone together, without Julia sitting right by Quentin’s side, it's hard to find a safe topic of conversation. Eliot can't seem to stop his own self-loathing from spiraling out into whatever he says, which always makes Quentin start trying to explain and rationalize and convince him that it's okay, he still wants to try and coexist. Eliot knows how fucked up that is, hates it whenever it happens. But it's a paradox, because Eliot is supposed to be being himself, and himself is broken and tragic and theatrically self-absorbed to hide the brokenness and the tragedy, and none of that is helpful.</p><p>But even if they can’t really talk, they can at least sit quietly and easily on opposite sides of the living room, so that’s what they do often. Today Eliot is working on his cuticles (which are going to take a <em>lot</em> of TLC to restore to their pristine state). Quentin is supposedly reading a book, but Eliot keeps feeling eyes on him, and eventually looks up to see Quentin studying his face intently, a little nervously.</p><p>The Before-Eliot thing to say would be "Take a picture, it'll last longer," or maybe "Like what you see?", but those options are wrong, all wrong. Before-Eliot was bitchy, acerbic, relentlessly flirtatious, but Now-Eliot can't be any of those things and keep Quentin safe. Instead, he says, "What are you reading?"</p><p>"Sherlock Holmes," Quentin says. His eyes flick down to the book and then are drawn back up to Eliot's face. "Collected Stories."</p><p>"Different genre for you," Eliot observes.</p><p>"I needed -- no magic, no romance," Quentin says. "Change of pace. Plus, they're classics, and it's been years since I read them." He grins. "I had these cassette tapes when I was a kid -- some famous actor did the narration, I can't remember his name. I still hear it all in his voice, though, when I read." He puts on a truly horrendous British accent and reads, "<em>'You have come in by train this morning, I see.' 'You know me, then?’ 'No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove.'</em>"</p><p>"Stop, stop, stop," Eliot says, grimacing. "God, that is actually painful to listen to."</p><p>"Okay, Shakespeare, you do better, then," Quentin says, and he tosses the paperback across to Eliot.</p><p>Eliot has to drop his nail scissors to catch it, but he makes that sacrifice. He flips open the first page and reads, "<em>Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran.</em>" He frowns, tries that one again: "Stoke Moran? How the fuck do you pronounce that."</p><p>Quentin is laughing at him, and it makes Eliot's heart leap. "Weren't you supposed to be like, a lord's son or something, under the memory spell?"</p><p>"Something like that," Eliot says. "I don't really remember any of it, so sadly that glory is lost to time." He thumbs through the book. "I've never read most of these. I had to read one in middle school, I think, but that was a-- bad month, for other reasons. I haven't gone back."</p><p>"You can borrow it when I'm done. Or--" Quentin stops, looking intently at Eliot again, mouth a flat line as he thinks. "Read to me," he says, unexpectedly. "Would you?"</p><p>"Anything you want," Eliot says, immediately. "But is that-- isn't reading supposed to be distracting you?" From Eliot being here, and what his body did?</p><p>"I think-- it might help if I can hear your voice just... talking. Normally. Sounding like yourself. So no accent," Quentin finishes, half-smiling.</p><p>"If anything I say makes you uncomfortable," Eliot says, "Even the tiniest bit, we stop. If you just get tired of hearing me, we stop."</p><p>"Yeah," Quentin says. "I was on page four, I think."</p><p>Eliot scans through the book, finds the spot. "Mm, yes, return ticket, okay. <em>'You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart'</em> -- what the hell is that -- <em>'along heavy roads, before you reached the station.' The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion...</em>"</p><p>He glances over at Quentin every time he turns a page, or finds a spot to make an offhand comment to try and make him laugh. Every time, Quentin is studying him closely, his face, his hands, his posture. It makes Eliot incredibly self-conscious, honestly. He's a show-off, but he's not even doing anything worth watching, here. So this is a different kind of being observed -- being analyzed, piece by piece, defined and considered.</p><p>After a dozen pages, he hits a reasonable stopping point and dog-ears the page. Quentin visibly winces. "I need a break," Eliot says, stretching out a crick in his neck. "I can do more later, though."</p><p>"That would be good," Quentin says. "I think-- this is going to help. The more I hear you talk, the more your voice sounds like-- well, yours."</p><p>Eliot wants to open the book again, at that, but he's not sure he can handle being scrutinized any more right now. "Just let me know when," he says. "I'm game any time." </p><p>He doesn’t say: You're the only reason I'm here at all.</p><p>--</p><p>It’s not as fun as Eliot had hoped it would be, not having anything to <em>do</em>. Margo visits as much as she reasonably can, but she does have a kingdom to rule, so often she has to go take care of things there. Eliot thinks about going with her, now that the council has decided he's allowed to, but he’s not quite feeling up to seeing Fen yet. He’s not quite sure when he will be, honestly. And anyway, Quentin is here. So Eliot is here.</p><p>Before-Eliot would have spent his time drinking, probably, but his body got pretty thoroughly detoxed while he wasn’t in charge of it. (That was Quentin’s doing too, he learns from Julia.) Whatever Kady's been doing, there’s now just enough ambient magic in the air to mess around with some party tricks, make sure he still remembers all the basics, so that occupies some of his time. The continued process of re-learning his body's quirks and needs (oh, right, he <em>is</em> slightly lactose intolerant, that hadn't just been part of the nightmare) takes up some time too.</p><p>By far the best hours of the day are the ones he spends with Quentin, reading more Sherlock Holmes to him, talking with him -- carefully, still, but Eliot's getting better at it -- and just sitting in the same room, doing their own things. It both is and isn’t reminiscent of their time at the mosaic, in the early years. There, after they'd finished the patterns they could think of for the day, done the chores to keep themselves fed and washed and clothed, the hours had stretched like this. Especially in the summer, long lazy sun-drenched evenings waiting for it to be dark enough to actually go to sleep, in that world without blackout curtains or air conditioning. No TV or phones to distract them, no real local friends yet to come over and swap jokes and stories. No son to take care of and keep them endlessly entertained, at that point.</p><p>They have TV and phones, here. But Quentin doesn’t do well with the jump-scares that seems to be in every drama, and Eliot doesn’t really want to watch cartoons about little elemental magician children no matter how good the storyline is supposed to be, and Queer Eye makes them both cry way too much. So they don’t watch a ton, and that means the main difference is that, at the mosaic, they'd been able to spend their time focusing on each other.</p><p>Not just having sex, either. That had happened, yes -- a lot -- like, a <em>lot</em>, all those cliches about "it's always the quiet ones" were incredibly fucking true in Q's case -- but even on days they didn't, even in <em>months</em> they didn't (when Quentin was first married and they hadn't sorted their shit out about that yet or when they'd had Teddy underfoot, not yet old enough to go play unsupervised), they could still touch. Moving tiles was weirdly exhausting, so there were lots of shoulder massages and foot rubs and working salves into rough knees and palms. They could lie curled together on the bed outside or the bench inside and chat, or bicker. Play with each other's hair. Quentin loved being held. Eliot loved holding him. He can still remember the solid weight of Q's back against his chest, and misses it, often, when they’re sitting like this with too much air between them.</p><p>"Do you think about that other life?" he asks one day, trying to be casual. "At the mosaic?"</p><p>Quentin gives him a look like, duh, that's the stupidest thing that's ever come out of your mouth. Eliot loves it, loves that he's getting his sass back. "All the time," he says. "It got me through-- some stuff."</p><p>Eliot's stomach flips. "And that didn't ruin it for you?"</p><p>Quentin holds up his hands like two sides of a scale. "Fifty years versus a few months?" he says, moving his hands to show a huge imbalance. "No, it didn't ruin it for me. Do you think about it?"</p><p>"Sometimes," Eliot says loftily, out of instinct, then amends it to, "A lot. A lot of the time."</p><p>"What do you think about?"</p><p>Eliot eyes him, because this, this seems dangerous. This could get into not-good territory very quickly. But Quentin's eyes are calm, and his head is cocked to the side, genuine interest and maybe a little bit of a challenge on his face. </p><p>So Eliot sighs and settles back in his chair, legs up on the coffee table. He wants to stare at the ceiling as he does this, avoid any possible tension, but he makes himself stay focused on Quentin to make sure he stays okay. "Just the daily routine, sometimes," he says. "The garden. Your cooking, and how glad I am I don't have to eat it anymore." Quentin snorts indignantly, but his face says he knows it's true. "There was so much magic in the air, more than there is now."</p><p>"Also quite a bit of opium. In the air."</p><p>"That was nice too." Eliot stares off to the side as he gauges how honest he can be without causing problems. "I think about Teddy a lot, and the grandkids. I miss--" his throat closes up, briefly, and he blinks hard. "I know they don't exist in this timeline, but I miss them."</p><p>"I never expected you to be so good with kids," Quentin says. "But you were phenomenal, they loved you so much."</p><p>"They're like cats, they can sense fear and are drawn to it," Eliot says. "I expected you to be good with kids, you've got I'd Be An Excellent Dad written all over you. Sentimental little bitch."</p><p>"Says the guy who bawled the whole way through my wedding," Quentin shoots back, and then huffs a little, like a laugh, but Eliot knows it's an attempt to tamp down sadness. He's heard it enough before.</p><p>"I miss her too," he says, inspecting his cuticles (coming along nicely now), knowing these are dangerous, <em>dangerous</em> waters. "She was just, so lovely, and so good for you."</p><p>"She was good for you too," Quentin says hoarsely. "She would call you on your bullshit even quicker than I could. I had never thought three people could work, like that, but.”</p><p>"Somehow we made it happen," Eliot finishes. "I wouldn't have had it any other way."</p><p>"Me either," Quentin says. His voice is a bare whisper, and Eliot looks up sharply, remembering too late that he's supposed to be making things better, not worse, for fuck's sake. As expected, there are tears on Quentin's cheeks. Stupid, stupid, <em>stupid</em>.</p><p>"Fuck, sorry," he says. "I should never have brought it up," but Quentin is waving a hand at him in a shut-up kind of gesture, so he shuts up.</p><p>"No," he says through tears. "It's good, it's-- good crying. I needed it."</p><p>Eliot's every instinct says he should get up, go over there, settle down beside Q and scoop him into his arms. He'd done it so many times, when a bad depressive episode hit, when Arielle died, when Teddy left home, when Quentin remembered he was never going to see his dad or Julia again. Sometimes it took a while for the contact to help, but Eliot would sit as long as he had to. All night, into the morning if necessary. And now -- he truly doesn't have anything else he needs to be doing, nothing is higher priority then getting Quentin back to solid ground.</p><p>But he can't. He wedges his hands underneath his thighs so he can't easily get up, and sits miserably across from Quentin, and watches him cry, shaking breaths and hands clenched in the blanket over his lap. Finally, Quentin stops, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He smiles at Eliot, a little shakily.</p><p>"Thanks for staying," he says. "It-- helps."</p><p>Like Eliot could possibly have done anything else, after everything Quentin has gone through for him. But the fear, the pain of watching Quentin fall apart just from an offhand comment is tight in his chest, and he finds himself asking: "Is it too much, us trying to be together? Is it going to be too painful? We lost something so big. I don't want to hurt you any more, I can't live with myself if I do."</p><p>"What? No," Quentin says, sitting bolt upright. "No, it's not, I can do this. I <em>want</em> to do this. Just because--" He clasps his hands together hard, but Eliot can see they're shaking. "I <em>want</em> this," he says again. "For the first time in-- fucking, ever, pretty much, I actually have a real choice about what I do. I want to choose." </p><p>"Okay," Eliot says, relieved and panicking all at the same time. "Okay, okay, I hear you." Quentin is calming down, sitting back again and drawing his legs up under him. "You've got the reins here, I'm following your lead. Because it's what I want too," he adds, when Quentin looks like he's about to say something. "I just wish so much that it was easier." He swallows, carefully, makes himself be honest. "That I could hold you when you're sad."</p><p>"I know," Quentin says, his face crumpling into that squashed miserable expression he wears far too much of the time. </p><p>"And I don’t want to push you too hard," Eliot adds. "The worst thing I could possibly do would be to rush you and fuck this up so bad it can't be un-fucked."</p><p>"The worst thing you could possibly do would be to give up on me," Quentin says, and he's crying again now.</p><p>"Never," Eliot says firmly. "Never. You didn't give up on me through-- <em>unimaginable</em> circumstances. I'm not giving up on you."</p><p>And he wants it to be true, wholeheartedly. He'll just have to be as brave, as strong, as Quentin is, to pull it off.</p><p>He really hopes that's possible.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Sherlock Holmes excerpt in this chapter is from <em>The Speckled Band</em>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ch 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Quentin is weirdly jittery today, fiddling with the cuffs of his jeans and a spare scrap of paper he keeps folding and unfolding until Eliot stops reading to him and fixes him with a look.</p>
<p>"You over-caffeinate today, or something?"</p>
<p>"What? No. I just." Quentin looks down at his feet. "I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, about holding me when I’m sad, and I want-- I <em>really</em> want that. I can’t stop wishing for it.”</p>
<p>Eliot's heart plummets about twelve stories down through his chest. "Fuck, Q. I want that too, so much." He clamps his mouth shut before he can say anything else. This honesty thing he’s trying is a double-edged sword.</p>
<p>Q’s face squashes into a sad expression, then a strange one. "Maybe I can," he says suddenly. "Maybe--" And he's standing up, hustling around the coffee table like Eliot is on fire and needs putting out.</p>
<p>"Q--"</p>
<p>But Quentin is already grabbing for Eliot's shoulders, going straight in for a hug. And Eliot wants it <em>so</em> badly, he wraps his arms around Quentin's waist and makes a contented little noise as his head settles against Quentin's chest--</p>
<p>And it's good for about a second, until Quentin shivers, then doesn't stop shivering. Eliot snatches his hands off Quentin's back as Quentin pushes away from him, sits down hard on the coffee table, scrambles backwards until he's back in his chair.</p>
<p>"Nope," he mutters, shaking his head, his growing-out hair falling in front of his face. "Nope, that did not work."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have hugged you," Eliot says, feeling sick. If he just knew what he <em>did</em> while he was possessed, maybe he could avoid it. Or maybe he couldn’t, maybe he’d just be too fucking selfish and <em>want</em> too badly to do the right thing. "Is that-- did I--"</p>
<p>"I don't, I can't remember, but probably," Quentin says miserably. "There were-- there was a lot of cuddling. Fuck, why are the things I want the most the things I can't do?" He draws his knees up to his chest and drops his face onto them.</p>
<p>"What things do you want most?" Eliot asks, knowing he’s pushing too hard but desperate to hear.</p>
<p>"Hugs," Quentin says, muffled by his knees. "Feeling--" he draws in a long breath. "Feeling like when you hold me, I'm safe, instead of trapped."</p>
<p>Eliot's hands ball into fists, nails digging into his palms. Fuck, he <em>never</em> wanted to keep Quentin trapped. That was the whole fucking reason for rejecting him, for pushing him away before he got stuck too deep in the endless mess that is Eliot. And now he’s stuck anyway, and in the worst way possible. Eliot’s body without Eliot’s mind is, apparently, the only thing that can fuck up worse than Eliot’s body <em>with</em> Eliot’s mind.</p>
<p>"And then, you know, making out, and sex, and stuff," Quentin says, looking up and smiling, almost. "But that's. A long ways away, I think."</p>
<p>"So, all those things, you had to do. Before," Eliot says, choosing to ignore that second part of the answer, because if he thinks about it he'll want it and he can't want it yet. "They set you off, they don’t work, even though you know you want them in theory. Maybe the key is-- things you never did. Instead of telling me what did happen, can you tell me what didn't?"</p>
<p>Quentin takes a shaky breath, arms still tight around his knees. "We never," he starts, then shudders. "God, it's hard to think about."</p>
<p>"We don't have to, either, we can--"</p>
<p>"No, I want to, I want this to be <em>over</em>," Quentin says fiercely. One of his hands grasps his other wrist so tight that his knuckles are white. "I can hug Julia just fine now, I can touch whoever, everyone except you. I hate it.” He falls silent again, and Eliot waits him out, hoping against hope he’ll think of something, that this could be a breakthrough.</p>
<p>Eventually, he says, “I was never big spoon. That-- could be worth a try."</p>
<p>"Only if you want to," Eliot says, but his traitorous, <em>wanting</em> body is already scooting to the edge of the couch, making room for another body behind him.</p>
<p>Quentin stands, determined, and walks over to the couch. Eliot has to concentrate to keep his hands folded safely in his lap. It would be so easy to just lean over a little, brush their shoulders together as Quentin climbs behind him -- if he wanted to set back their progress by who knows how long. He has to be okay with playing the long game here, or he won’t be able to play it at all.</p>
<p>Quentin is so <em>squirmy</em>, nervously getting into position, and Eliot missed that, the way he wriggles his way into any space he wants to occupy instead of just fucking putting himself there like a normal human. He’s seen it enough, in the past weeks, but feeling it happen near him is so much better. "Okay," Quentin says finally. "Try lying down."</p>
<p>Eliot does, careful, careful, so slowly. He doesn't settle back against Q, keeps himself balanced on his side. Then Quentin's arm loops around his waist, pulling him back, and <em>oh</em>. This is. More intense than it has any right to be.</p>
<p>Quentin lets out a sigh, and Eliot tenses, but it's a happy sigh as he settles into place and presses his face against the back of Eliot's neck. "This is good," he murmurs, his words vibrating through the fabric of Eliot's clothes. "Fuck, I missed you so fucking much, El."</p>
<p>Eliot closes his eyes, just breathes. Quentin's heartbeat against his back started out a little fast, but it's slowing, steadying. The weight of his arm, the bump of a knee against the back of Eliot's leg, each touch is weirdly electric, not like in an arousing way but in some deeper sense that makes Eliot's heart go <em>yes, yes, yes</em>.</p>
<p>"Can I hold your hand?" he asks. God, when was the last time he asked someone’s permission for <em>that</em>? Never?</p>
<p>"Yeah, try it," Quentin says. His fingers are curled against Eliot's stomach, and Eliot bends one arm, brushes the tips of his fingers against Quentin's. Rests them gently on the back of Quentin's hand, then threads their fingers together. Rubs along the back of Q's thumb, carefully.</p>
<p>"That okay?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Q says, sounding vaguely surprised by it.</p>
<p>"So let's just... stay here?"</p>
<p>"Definitely," Quentin says, and snuggles closer into Eliot's back.</p>
<p>They rest together as the sun sets through the huge windows, painting the living room gold. Eliot doesn't really want to doze off, but it's so comfortable, like some piece of his soul hadn’t snapped properly back into place in his body until just now. He wakes up at some point, Quentin snoring gently into his shoulder, Eliot's shirt plastered to his back with sweat from the warmth of him. A fucking tiny little furnace masquerading as a human, that's what he is.</p>
<p>Eliot realizes with significant disappointment that he really has to pee, and that means getting up. "Q," he says softly, rocking his body a little to jostle him. "It's me, it's Eliot."</p>
<p>Quentin wakes up with a small snort. "Mm."</p>
<p>"I'm going to get up now. You good?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Quentin says, taking his arm from Eliot's waist and stretching. Eliot feels the loss keenly, but he feels the urgency of needing to get to the bathroom just as keenly.</p>
<p>When he comes back, he sits in the armchair, instead of on the couch. Quentin is rumpled from sleeping, red lines across his cheek where the texture of the throw pillows has zebra-striped him, but he looks relaxed and happy.</p>
<p>"I didn't dream," he says. "I was a little worried-- it smelled a lot like you. Actually, kind of like I remember from Fillory, when you didn't have any of your hair stuff. So I thought I might forget what was happening while I was asleep, and think it wasn't you, but. I was fine." He smiles. "So that's progress."</p>
<p>"You can spoon me literally any time you want," Eliot offers wildly. "I will make myself fully available for therapeutic spooning."</p>
<p>"Careful what you offer, I'm going to take you up on it," Quentin says. "Prepare to only accomplish tasks that you can do lying on your side."</p>
<p>"You’ve met me,” Eliot says. “If I can't do it while lounging, is it even worth doing?"</p>
<p>Quentin rolls his eyes as he smiles. A major victory.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Quentin pushes himself, after that, probably faster than he should. Definitely faster than he should. Eliot knows he should tell him to slow down, but it’s so lovely to be touched again, to be held, and can’t Eliot just have this one little bit of comfort, every once in a while? Is that such a huge thing to ask?</p>
<p>Quentin touches Eliot's hand, while Eliot's eating breakfast, fingers dragging across the back of his wrist and up his forearm, and Eliot manages not to drop his spoon and lean into the touch. He sits on the couch with Eliot while Eliot reads to him, and leans, so very gradually, against his side, putting an arm around Eliot’s shoulders, sticking with the big-spoon theory. The angle is a bit awkward. They really do fit together so nicely in one particular direction, small tucked into big, and trying to make themselves fit the other way around is strange. But it’s better, so so much better, than not being able to touch at all. And it almost never makes Quentin panic.</p>
<p>But almost never is not never, as Eliot discovers the hard way that he cannot, <em>cannot</em> touch Quentin’s hair. He can’t lie down too fast, sit up too fast -- just moving quickly in general is bad news. It’s safest to call Quentin Q, or darling, or Coldwater, because using his full first name is sometimes fine and sometimes a disaster, depending on how exactly Eliot’s voice sounds when he says it.</p>
<p>Eliot doesn't want to complain, because the good moments are so good, but he’s also so scared that any day will be the last straw, when Quentin realizes this is just. Way more effort than Eliot deserves, when Quentin could be doing anything else, have anyone else.</p>
<p>Of course Julia is the first one to put together that maybe not being in <em>this particular apartment</em> would be helpful. She rented another loft a week ago; Eliot had assumed it was so she could have some actual privacy now that they're not on 24/7 questing duty anymore, but she hands the keys over to Quentin one day while they're spooning on the couch, dangling them in front of his face.</p>
<p>"What--?" Quentin asks, reaching up to grab them, levering up onto one forearm. Eliot stays carefully still. "Why?"</p>
<p>"You need a clean slate," she says matter-of-factly. "A space you--” referring to Quentin-- “Don’t have any memories in, and especially that you two haven't been in together before. I copied all the wards over from this place, so you'll be just as safe. But that's the only thing that's the same."</p>
<p>"Jules," Quentin says.</p>
<p>“Only if you want,” she adds. “And only when you want. I didn’t leave any milk in the fridge to spoil, or anything, so you can wait months before you even check it out if you’d prefer.” She frowns thoughtfully. “I didn’t leave anything in the fridge, actually, so you’ll want to grocery shop if you’re going to stay long.”</p>
<p>Eliot loves her, loves her so much. Powers or no powers, what a fucking goddess she is.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Quentin says, heartfelt, and then he lies down again and cuddles closer to Eliot, keys still in his hand.</p>
<p>“You should have married that girl when you had the chance, Coldwater,” Eliot teases as she walks away. “She is <em>amazing</em>.”</p>
<p>Quentin snorts. “I’ve never ‘had the chance’,” he says. “I had the biggest fucking crush on her for-- ever, pretty much, but that’s not how we work. I mean, I still maybe have a big fucking crush on her,” he continues, now muttering into Eliot’s shoulder blade. “But it’s like. Just a perpetual thing, now. I barely even notice it, I just want her to be happy.”</p>
<p>“Have you ever had any kind of close relationship with someone and <em>not</em> ended up falling in love with them?” Eliot asks, feeling so desperately fond of this sweet, sweet soul.</p>
<p>“I--” Quentin’s voice stops in his throat, and his arms draw away from Eliot’s waist. “Yes.”</p>
<p>Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Eliot sits up, not as careful as he should be, twists to try and grab at Quentin’s hands. “Fuck, no, I didn’t mean--” But Quentin’s face is tense, and his eyes are fixed on the ceiling, and he jerks his hands out of Eliot’s grasp and rolls to face the back of the couch. </p>
<p>There’s nothing Eliot can do, when it happens like this, except-- leave. Take away the body that’s causing the reaction and the <em>fucking stupid as hell</em> mind that wasn’t careful enough, thoughtful enough, <em>again</em>, and set it off. Running away from his problems is a very Before-Eliot thing to do, a habit that Now-Eliot has been trying to shed, but how do you keep someone safe from a fear that’s shaped like-- yourself?</p>
<p>“Julia,” he calls out, standing shakily and heading up the stairs to the room she’s been staying in. “We need you.”</p>
<p>She’s at the door in a moment. “He was fine just a second ago,” she says.</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, I fucked it up again,” Eliot says sharply, then regrets it, because it’s so far from her fault. Why is everything that comes out of his mouth the wrong thing. “I’ll be in my room, I-- just, if I can be helpful, let me know.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got it,” she says over her shoulder, and heads downstairs, leaving Eliot alone.</p>
<p>He goes to his room and sits on the edge of his bed, breathing hard, showing no signs of moving either towards tears or towards calm. As he’s staring at nothing, a fat black bunny drops into existence on the floor in front of him.</p>
<p>“ELIOT PLEASE COME HOME!” it shouts. </p>
<p>Eliot leans down to pick it up, feeling like all his joints are creaking, rusted. He examines the bunny, notices the strip of red-and-gold ribbon tied in an ornate bow around its neck.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” he mutters. He doesn’t want to go. Will Q hate him for leaving? Will it be better for Q in the long run if he does? Probably yes and yes. But he’s been putting this off for weeks, and he’s certainly not fucking helping anything by staying here. What other choice does he have, really?</p>
<p>“ELIOT PLEASE COME HOME!”</p>
<p>Eliot holds the bunny up to his face, and says, “On my way.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Ch 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Note: This chapter includes discussion of a past suicide attempt.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Okay, so stepping out of the portal tree and getting that gorgeous view of Fillory's forested hills is pretty nice, actually. Eliot feels more relaxed here than he has any time since he got his body back, except those few times when he's been with Quentin and has managed not to fuck up for a solid ten, even twenty minutes. He doesn't think the calm that flows over him here is entirely caused by the airborne drugs, either. Despite having no official job or role here anymore, it still feels like he fits, because things in Fillory are just... perpetually fucked up, in a way that he recognizes, and that seems to recognize him. Nothing ever goes right for long, in this world or Eliot's.</p>
<p>“My terrible, terrible home,” he says to no one in particular, as he flags down the royal coach.</p>
<p>It’s dinner time when he arrives, and Fen and Margo and Josh are halfway through some new culinary experiment of Josh’s that actually seems to be working out, this time. Eliot strolls in, putting on some of Before-Eliot’s bravado like a favorite shirt. </p>
<p>"Eliot!" Fen hits him at a sprint, hugs him so hard his ribs ache.</p>
<p>"Oof," Eliot says, then "Hello, darling," when he recovers a bit. He drapes his arms over her shoulders, kisses the top of her head. "It's good to see you."</p>
<p>And it... is? Strangely. He's been dreading this, having to either explain everything that's been going on, or act a part again, or some awful combination of both. But it's really nice, being enveloped in this kind of enthusiastic love, and he remembers that he does love this sweet, brave woman, if not the way she'd hoped he would.</p>
<p>Like she can read his thoughts, she goes up on her tiptoes and angles her face for a kiss, capturing his mouth with a desperate, hungry energy. Eliot kisses back, not entirely unenthusiastically. She's a good kisser, he taught her well.</p>
<p>"All right, honey, my turn," Margo says, right next to them, and Fen releases him grudgingly so Margo can pull him into a tight hug as well. </p>
<p>"Glad you finally pussied up and made it here," she murmurs into his ear. "Fen was losing her absolute shit."</p>
<p>"We'll talk later," Eliot says, then folds himself halfway out of the hug and loops his free arm around Fen's shoulders. His two best girls, on either side of him. This is good. "I'm starving. And how's the wine situation?"</p>
<p>It's still not great, is how it is, but with his new, lower tolerance at least he doesn’t have to drink much of it to get pleasantly tipsy. He switches to water after a couple of glasses, still trying to be responsible, and listens to all the various things that have gone wrong in the last couple of weeks. Fen holds his hand under the table the whole time, and even when it gets sweaty and kind of weird the sustained contact isn't bad.</p>
<p>Then dinner is over and they're headed back to their bedroom, and Eliot is trying not to let his face or his body language show how much he's dreading the conversation he can't escape having.</p>
<p>Fen pushes him up against the door as soon as they're inside, kisses him hard, and oh, it is nice to be wanted so <em>tangibly</em>, after weeks of just pure emotion and no payoff. Eliot lets her kiss herself breathless, then cups her face in his hands, intending to try and start talking, somehow, but her cheeks are wet with tears and everything he was about to say slips out of his mind.</p>
<p>"Fen," he says, hands sliding to her shoulders. "What is it?"</p>
<p>"What do you think it is," she says, half-laughing, kind of hiccuping. "We thought you were <em>dead</em>, Eliot. I mourned for you, I did all the rituals. And I'm just--" she plants another kiss on him-- "so--" another-- "happy, to have you back again."</p>
<p>"Fen," he says again. "We have to talk about that."</p>
<p>She shudders and presses her face against his chest. "I know," she says. "But can we just-- save it till the morning, maybe?"</p>
<p>Eliot holds her tight. "I-- don't know," he says slowly. "That kind of depends on what you planned to do tonight." Fen looks up at him quizzically, and he explains, "I'm trying this new thing. Real honesty. You deserve that from me." He walks them over to the side of the bed, sits them down side by side.</p>
<p>"Things have-- changed," he says. Fen regards him with raised eyebrows. "While I was on the quest--" He stops, huffs out a breath, tries again. "I really do care for you--"</p>
<p>"This is about Quentin," Fen says matter-of-factly.</p>
<p>Eliot blinks, searches her face for the bitterness or jealousy that he's expecting. He doesn't find it. "Yes," he says, resisting an overwhelming urge to say "maybe" instead.</p>
<p>"I know you two have something, Eliot," Fen says. "I saw it-- before, a long while before. I didn't understand at first, I was so used to just the way things are here, but I've spent more time on Earth and talking with Margo and-- I get it." She brings her hand up to brush his hair back where it's falling into his eyes. "We already went through all this ages ago, didn't we, with King Idri? Even back then, I never expected my husband the High King would be married to me alone, and I've come a long way since."</p>
<p>"I'm not the High King anymore, though," Eliot says. She's not angry, why isn't she angry? This isn't making any sense. "This isn't about alliances, or strategy, or even just wanting to fuck men. It's-- more."</p>
<p>"I know," Fen says again. "Eliot, I can see it all over your face, and I'm telling you-- I know you have room in your life for more than one person. I just need you to make sure there’s room for me too."</p>
<p>Eliot just stares at her. How is this happening? How is this going so well? "Did Margo prep you for this conversation?" he asks suspiciously.</p>
<p>"Only after I asked her to," Fen says. "I knew something was up when you stayed on Earth so long, so I... may have twisted her arm a bit to get her to open up."</p>
<p>"<em>You</em> got <em>Margo</em> to talk shit about <em>me</em>?"</p>
<p>"It wasn't talking shit, how I did it is a long story, and we're talking about you, not me." Fen jabs him in the chest with a finger. "No subject changes. We're still married. I love you. You love Quentin, I think, and, hopefully, me." She looks up at him with those big sweet eyes, not wheedling, not expecting, just asking.</p>
<p>"I care for you," says Eliot, who cannot possibly deserve this kind of grace but is somehow receiving it anyway. "I've been a shitty husband, in-- a whole lot of ways. If you'd rather go marry someone who can love you the same way you love them, I want you to be free to do that. But," he says, seeing the pain blossom in Fen's eyes, the set of her mouth, "You're right. I do have room to love more than one person. So if that's what you want, if I can be a good partner to you that way, that... seems ideal."</p>
<p>Fen hugs him tight around the neck. "Oh gods, I was so hoping you'd say that," she gushes, laughing into his shoulder.</p>
<p>Eliot kisses the side of her head, still reeling. Where did this confident, self-possessed woman come from, and what has she done with Fen? But when he thinks about it, he's been thinking of Fen from when they first got married, before the fall and return of magic, even before their daughter and that whole nightmare, like she had frozen in his brain somehow as a caricature of herself. And he's been away a long time. A long, eventful time. Has he deserved her love, ever? Does he now?</p>
<p>"Also, you said real honesty," Fen says, still into his shoulder. "So admit it -- your thing with Quentin is at least a little bit about wanting to fuck men, right?" Eliot pulls back, and she's smirking at him.</p>
<p>"It's... not <em>not</em> about that," he says, then sighs. "But that's not going to be part of the picture for." He swallows. "I don't know how long."</p>
<p>"Why not?" </p>
<p>So Eliot sits back from her, and takes a deep breath, and tells her the worse half of what he has to tell her. What his body did, while he wasn't there. What he still does to Quentin, now that he's back, without even trying to. She's horrified, as he was expecting, but she stays and listens, and holds his hand when she notices he's digging his nails into his leg, and doesn't interrupt or try to finish his sentences when he can't quite find the words.</p>
<p>Finally, he's done, and he collapses back on the bed, and she says, "Oh, Eliot. I'm so sorry. Are there any spells that can help him?"</p>
<p>"Magic doesn't quite work that way," Eliot says. "If we tried, he could end up... different. Not himself."</p>
<p>"And you’re in love with him, not some different him," Fen says, nodding. She stretches out beside him. "You're definitely not going to want to have sex, then, after talking about. All that awfulness."</p>
<p>"No," Eliot says, then thinks of how much she’s giving him, how much that should never have been asked of her. "Well. I don't think so. But I would be happy to kiss you."</p>
<p>Fen makes a happy noise and surges toward him, attacking him with kisses again, but it's good, it's sweet. Eliot likes kissing, and Fen is so <em>enthusiastic</em>, and even if her body is smaller and softer and less dick-having than he'd like it's not <em>un</em>attractive. He can appreciate it. And after what she’s just heard him describe, the fact that she wants to kiss him at all is nothing short of miraculous.</p>
<p>They settle down to sleep after making out for a couple hours, and then in the bright Fillorian sunrise Eliot rolls over and finds her and kisses her again, deeply, and they don't leave the room until lunch.</p>
<p>Eliot flops into the chair across from Margo, loose-limbed and weirdly happy. Endorphins, that's what it is. </p>
<p>"Jesus," Margo says, side-eyeing him over her plate of roast... something. "Hi, I'm Margo, we haven't talked in a while, nice of you to drop in. No, I didn’t miss you at all while you were getting your dick wet all morning.”</p>
<p>“Bambi, I have responsibilities,” Eliot says, snagging something vaguely potato-like off her plate and trying it. "Ones which I've neglected far too long."</p>
<p>"Mm," Margo says archly. "Some of us have responsibilities that <em>matter to other people</em>. Like <em>running a kingdom</em>."</p>
<p>"Yes, and how is that going?" Eliot is just winding her up deliberately, at this point, he'd be more than happy to settle down and actually talk. But damn, he missed being a bitch.</p>
<p>"Shitty," Margo says, deadpan, and jerks her plate out of his reach when he goes back for more potato-things. "But occasionally fun," she continues, "I got to swear in a new unit of palace guards this morning, they're so cute in their shiny little uniforms."</p>
<p>"Any particularly cute ones?"</p>
<p>“Okay, thirsty, settle the fuck down. You can’t bang my subordinates any more than you could bang yours when you were king, it’s not ethical.” She cocks her head to the side. “Why’d you finally come back, anyway? I know Fen sent you a bunny, but I didn’t actually expect you to show.”</p>
<p>“Again. Responsibilities.” Eliot waves a hand expressively. “I couldn’t hide on Earth forever, and it sounded like she really wanted to see me.”</p>
<p>“You have no fucking idea,” Margo says emphatically. “It was like being on a fucking road trip with a toddler, except instead of ‘are we there yet’ it was ‘when’s Eliot coming back’. I was about to portal back there and fucking kidnap you, with my apologies to Q. I’m glad he let you step out for a minute to save my sanity.”</p>
<p>“He didn’t exactly know I was going. I left him a note.” </p>
<p>Margo frowns at him. “Trouble in paradise?”</p>
<p>“Paradise,” Eliot says, “Is not how I would describe it.” The endorphins are wearing off, and he looks around to see if there’s a decanter of that terrible but at least strong wine from last night.</p>
<p>Margo’s face softens. “Is he still having a hard time?”</p>
<p>“It’s agony, Bambi,” Eliot says. Fuck, he’s getting too into the habit of being honest, that was true. “For him, for me. I assume for everyone around us. I can kind of touch him, sometimes, if he’s ready for it, if I don’t do <em>anything</em> wrong. And there are infinite ways to get it wrong, and only one to get it right, and no fucking guidebook on how to find that one way.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like magic, tbh,” Margo says, spelling out the acronym: tee bee aich. </p>
<p>“Yeah, like trying to find a spell to do fucking open-heart surgery on myself with no anesthesia.” Eliot says. He fiddles with one of the silver forks from his place setting, twirling it in his fingers. “I don’t know, it’s awful to say, but-- it’s so hard, to keep going, when everything I do is always wrong. I’d rather just stay here with you.”</p>
<p>“Do you actually mean that, though?”</p>
<p>Yes, and no, and yes, and no. Both at the same time. “I don’t know,” Eliot sighs. “I do know I have people here who love me. I can probably find something to occupy my time, helping you and Fen, or even fucking farming if I have to. It’s just-- the coward’s way out, again, and I told myself I was done being a coward.”</p>
<p>“Everyone needs breaks,” Margo says. “Q knows that. You’re doing a hell of a lot of caregiving, while you’re still needing care yourself.”</p>
<p>“So you think I should stay?” Eliot asks, surprised, and honestly a little scared. He relies on Margo to keep him in check, call him out when he needs it (aka all the time), force him to make the right decisions by calling him a motherfucker as often as necessary. Is she just going to let him walk away from this?</p>
<p>“I want you to, because I miss you, but I know you shouldn’t. And I know you know you shouldn’t.” Margo reaches across the table and grabs the wine decanter he’s finally found out of his hand before he can pour himself any. “If you decide you and Quentin can’t have anything long term because that’s what’s best for you, I’ll back you all the way. And you should come here and rest when you need to. But if you’re abandoning the whole thing, it has to be an actual choice you make, not boohoo I haven’t fucked anyone in so long I’m giving up.”</p>
<p>The word <em>abandoning</em> pierces right through Eliot’s brain. It hurts. A lot. Quentin never abandoned him, even when that would have been the only fucking logical thing to do. Quentin is stronger than he is. He shies away from that thought, choosing instead to respond, “For the last time, this is not about fucking. God, you and Fen both. I can keep it in my pants for a hot second.”</p>
<p>“A hot second is exactly how long you can go without sex,” Margo says. “No more. You’re gonna be fucking humping pillows before the end of this, trust me. Q’s gonna get his hands on you finally and you’re going to come in your pants like a teenager. But that’s not a reason to give it up.”</p>
<p>“You’re correct, as always,” Eliot sighs, trying not to imagine Q making him come in his pants. “Now, shall I join you for your afternoon judgments, or do the people not want to see my wretched, deposed face?”</p>
<p>“They don’t, but you shall,” Margo responds, getting up from the table. “We need to start getting them used to you being around, in case things go sideways on Earth and you end up here for the long haul.”</p>
<p>Eliot follows her, snagging more potato-things as he goes, and wonders how someone can simultaneously have such great faith and such little faith in him at the same time. But then again, he’s the same way, isn’t he? Margo has always been the embodiment of the inside of his brain. It’s why he loves her. And why he’s scared she may be right.<br/>--</p>
<p>Julia's the only one home, when he gets back. She's cooking dinner and absent-mindedly creating small, controlled sparks in her other hand, over and over.</p>
<p>"Hi," Eliot says. He feels suddenly awkward -- they don't really know each other, honestly, and last time they spoke a couple days ago it hadn't exactly been under great circumstances. "Q go to the other place?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, he's been settling in," she says.</p>
<p>"Did he-- was he okay?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Julia says, dishing up and coming to sit at the kitchen island. "As much as he can be right now. Which is to say not at all, but."</p>
<p>Eliot swallows hard. He feels like he should apologize to her, suddenly, for getting himself possessed and hurting her best friend, for still being here and constantly undoing her hard work by accident, for ditching her and making her the only one responsible for Quentin as he walks this long, slow, torturous road to recovery. "I'm sorry. You've been so kind to me, and I'm-- sorry."</p>
<p>"For what?" Julia asks.</p>
<p>"Just my general self, I think," Eliot says.</p>
<p>Julia looks at him, then gestures to the pan of stir-fry. "Get some food, sit down." Eliot hesitates, but she stares him down until he relents. "I've known Q since we were kids," she says once he's finally taken a bite. "I've seen him in-- all sorts of places. Mentally, I mean. Some of them really, <em>really</em> bad."</p>
<p>"And this is the worst you've seen," Eliot finishes for her, stabbing a piece of broccoli.</p>
<p>"I don't think it is, actually," she says. "I think the time I found him on his way to the train tracks was worse."</p>
<p>Eliot's head rings with sudden shame, and the broccoli goes down hard over the lump in his throat.</p>
<p>"He'd just finished an inpatient program, he hated it, and he really didn't want to go back. But he knew his parents would put him back in if he told them what was up, and he couldn't go on feeling like he was." She pushes her food around her plate. "Thankfully we were twelve, and I was still like two inches taller than he was at that point, so I could-- hold him down. Until he started listening to me." She sighs. "And then we walked him home, and I told his parents, and they put him back in the program again."</p>
<p>"Was it better the second time?"</p>
<p>"Still bad," she says, shaking her head. "I wrote him like a million letters. I didn't get any back. I was convinced we were done being friends. But when he got back to school, they had found some new combination of meds that were actually working, and he wanted to just-- pick up right where we left off. Like nothing had happened. We didn't really talk about it until a few years later."</p>
<p>"What was different a few years later?"</p>
<p>"Nothing was, unfortunately. It's what was the same." She looks at Eliot sharply. "It's always going to work its way back around to being the same, every once in a while. I haven't been there for all of them, but I've been there a lot. It'd be really nice to have someone else on the team."</p>
<p>Eliot presses his lips together. "Signs point to me not being the best person for that role," he says finally.</p>
<p>"The only sign worth paying attention to is who Quentin wants on the team," she says. "He picked you. I can't say I entirely get it, but everyone has their own reactions to trauma. And you're doing pretty well, so far."</p>
<p>Eliot lets out a bitter "Ha," not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.</p>
<p>"There's no way to get it right a hundred percent of the time," Julia says. "You have to take that expectation off yourself, if you're going to try. That's not what Quentin expects of you, that's not what I expect of you."</p>
<p>"It's just--" Eliot swallows hard, ashamed of what he's going to say next. He could say it to Margo, she knows him, but to this almost stranger? After she had to watch his body rape her best friend for months, now he’s going to whine about how bad he has it? Real honesty, damn it. "It's really fucking hard."</p>
<p>"Yeah," Julia says, nodding. "It is. It's not going to stop being hard. So you have to get Q to be honest with you, and figure out how it's gonna work, at some point when he can make those decisions. Before it rolls around to where he can't, again."</p>
<p>"Oh good," Eliot says. "Talking about feelings. My specialty."</p>
<p>"Again, I can't say I get it." Julia picks up her plate and fork and stands. "But also again, Team Q is Team Q because it's who Quentin wants backing him up. He thinks you have what it takes. Prove him right."</p>
<p>She heads off to her room with her food, and Eliot stays, staring at his plate, until he hears her coming back out to put away her leftovers and slinks off to bed, not hungry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Ch 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How the fuck do you start a conversation, anyway? A real conversation? Eliot's got pick-up lines and witty banter coming out his ears. He's seduced the most unlikely prospects. He fucking seduced someone who was <em>actively trying to kill him at the time</em>. How was <em>that</em> easier than <em>this</em>?</p><p>The first step, logically, has to be getting to a place where the person can actually hear you. Physically speaking. Eliot can try this conversation as many times as he wants in front of the mirror in his bedroom, and it's not going to do any good, even if he gets it perfect. So he texts Quentin: <em>back in town. can i come over?</em> and stares at his phone, heart in his throat, for half an hour.</p><p>His eyes are dry from not blinking often enough when it finally buzzes. <em>sry was in the shower. yes, please do.</em></p><p>The loft was clearly chosen by Julia -- the exposed brick and sun-drenched hallway are very much her aesthetic. But when Eliot lets himself in, after a shouted "It's unlocked, come in" answers his knock, it's obvious Quentin has been making it his own. There are boxes upon boxes of books, some starting to be put in their proper places on shelves, with big gaps in between where presumably another topic or letter will eventually fill in the space. There's a Chinese takeout menu on the kitchen counter, and another in the trash can. Several throw blankets have migrated from the penthouse over here, and are piled in a little nest on the couch.</p><p>"I'm here," Eliot says out loud, even though Quentin invited him in. Don't risk it. Don't risk anything.</p><p>"I know," Quentin says, stepping out of what must be the bedroom, a small smile on his face. "I can hear you judging my furniture choices."</p><p>Eliot wants to look around again, at that, double check that he hasn't missed anything truly terrible in his once-over of the space, but his eyes are glued to Quentin. Barefoot in black jeans and a grey t-shirt, hair wet from the shower, gathered mostly into a tiny ponytail with the remaining too-short strands falling across his face. He looks nervous, a little, but-- really no more nervous than he always does about life in general? His eyes are clear and his hands are calm, thumbs tucked into his pockets.</p><p>He takes Eliot's breath away. Oh, this. <em>This</em> is why Eliot is turning himself inside out trying to make this work. Right.</p><p>"I'll take you antiquing one of these days," he says. "You're a nerd, you'll appreciate furniture that has more history to it than a brief stint in an IKEA and a sad few years being passed around various NYU students' apartments."</p><p>"Yeah, take me back to rob that bank again first," Quentin says. He rocks forward on his toes a bit, then back on his heels. Eliot can't tell if he's trying to come closer, or just fidgeting. "I'm really glad you came back," he blurts out suddenly. "I wasn't totally sure you were going to."</p><p>Eliot clasps his hands behind his back, digs his thumbnail into a knuckle. Tries not to think about the fact that he wasn't totally sure, himself, until Margo practically shoved him through the portal tree. "Did you want me to come back, while I was gone? Or are you just happy now that I'm here?"</p><p>"Both," Quentin says, after considering for a second.</p><p>"Which one was better? Wanting me from a distance, or having me here now?" Eliot can't stop himself, can't keep from trying to pick apart all the ways Q must not actually be interested, obviously, so he can keep being thrilled when he is. It's a sick addiction, he knows it, but maybe it's at least better than trying to get the scoop on what terrible things his body inflicted on this precious boy, which is his other constant impulse.</p><p>"Here now," Quentin says firmly, and smirks. “You’re always even hotter in person than in my memory, somehow, I’m not sure how you do it.”</p><p>Eliot's heart does some complicated gymnastics maneuver. Ten points from the Russian judge. "You're smooth as hell when you want to be, Coldwater, you know that?" He walks further into the room, carefully, settles himself into the single chair at Quentin's tiny dining table. </p><p>"I'm the minimum amount of smooth when the universe decides I somehow can be by accident," Quentin corrects. He sits exactly where Eliot expected him to sit, right in the midst of the nest of blankets. Soft things for a soft boy. "How was Fillory? Everything okay there?"</p><p>"Weirdly, yeah," Eliot says. "The talking animals really know their shit, apparently, Margo's killing it as High King. As we all knew she would," he adds, so he won't sound too bitter about it. He's not bitter, really. He has better things in his life now. Maybe. The possibility of them. If he can prove himself worthy. Why is his life a fucking constant quest for the slightest bit of happiness?</p><p>Quentin looks to the side for a moment, picks up some tchotchke from the coffee table and fiddles with it. "How's Fen?" he asks carefully. There's a lot, a <em>lot</em>, behind that question. Eliot wonders what Quentin would say if he said Fen wasn't cool with them. Would he nobly give Eliot up to the person who got there first? The guy loves to sacrifice himself for Eliot's sake, for some reason.</p><p>"She's well," Eliot says, "And, also weirdly, she has us all figured out."</p><p>Quentin sits up straighter. "How?"</p><p>"Apparently I'm real fucking easy to read, I guess? Or maybe your big puppy dog eyes are?" Eliot grins back at Quentin's glare. "But the especially weird part is that she's fine with it. She's happy to share."</p><p>At that, Quentin melts, a little, his shoulders sliding away from his ears when Eliot hadn't even quite realized they had been up around them in the first place. "That's... incredible," he says. His face breaks into a smile, even as he shakes his head. "We've gotten really fucking lucky with women."</p><p>"I'll say," Eliot says. "I never gave Fen enough credit, before. She's definitely changed, but I think she's been much cooler than I thought she was for quite a while." He stretches his arms up to the ceiling, idly peering at the nearest half-full shelf of books to try and figure out what their unifying topic is. "And her blowjobs have gotten <em>significantly</em> better since we were first married."</p><p>The second, the millisecond it's out of his mouth, he regrets it. A little bit of Before-Eliot sneaking out when he had his guard down, indulging in his particular blend of talking about sex because it's Who He Is and trying to make Quentin blush. And Quentin's not blushing. He's kind of grey-faced, actually, seeming to sink back into his grey t-shirt and his grey couch and his grey throw blankets. </p><p>"That was absolutely the rudest thing I could have said," Eliot says. "You are extremely within your rights to yell at me and kick me out."</p><p>"I don't want to," Quentin says in a small voice. "It's not safe."</p><p>Eliot wants to sink through the floor, down and down through other people's apartments and into the bedrock. "It is," he says softly. "You have choices, here. You are in charge. I will do what you say without arguing, and without any consequences to you or anyone else."</p><p>Quentin shudders. "Well, it's good to hear that out loud, at least," he says. "Now let's see if I can get myself to believe it." He stares hard at the tchotchke in his hand, some kind of model airplane, his fingers flexing and relaxing on it. Finally, he screws his eyes shut and says, "Fuck you, Eliot. Get out of my apartment."</p><p>Eliot stands and walks out the door, not too fast, not hesitating. "Please text me when I can apologize to you," he says as he goes, and closes the door behind him.</p><p>He keeps going down the hallway, out to the sidewalk, three blocks along before he lets himself stop. He turns into an alley and sits down hard, lets his head slam back against the building behind him as he stares at the cloudless sky. </p><p>On the one hand -- Eliot fucked up, again. Badly. So fucking badly. After five minutes, tops, of conversation. How does he keep finding ways to outdo himself? It's almost impressive. There is no way, <em>no way</em> he is good for Quentin, when all he does is hurt him and take from him. He's never deserved Quentin's love, not the boundless open-hearted love they had at the mosaic, not the desperate tragic love that had kept Quentin going through the Monster's tenure in his body. Not the white-knuckled inexplicable love Quentin has for him now. Every time they talk, he finds a way to add one more piece of evidence to the pile of reasons Q should walk away and never look back.</p><p>On the other hand -- Quentin handled that with incredible poise, considering. He was honest and open with his emotions, and kept himself from panicking, and took control in the way he wanted to. If he had thrown that fucking plane at Eliot's head, Eliot wouldn't have dodged. If he had tried to pretend it was all okay, Eliot would have gone along with it without second-guessing. He could have apologized later, in that case, once they had some distance. </p><p>Maybe that was what Eliot was good for, here. Getting Quentin to a place where he could feel in charge of himself again, his life. Being Quentin's training wheels for getting back to emotional solid ground. Letting Quentin do whatever he wanted, because he'd had to do so much he never wanted, until he understood he could have wants and have them listened to again. And then--</p><p>Eliot could go, and stop taking, and stop causing pain, and he would have done what Quentin needed him to do.</p><p>His phone is buzzing in his pocket before he's even all the way back to the penthouse. Fuck, this man is fucking something else. <em>i'm ok. you fucking asshole</em>, the text says.</p><p><em>so glad to hear it, truly,</em> Eliot texts back. <em>i am the world's BIGGEST FUCKING ASSHOLE. i am so sorry, i cannot tell you how sorry i am in either words or emojis</em></p><p>
  <em>you were teasing me for being smooth but that was the least fuckign smooth thing i've ever seen</em><br/>
<em>and i know not smooth</em>
</p><p>
  <em>you could not be more right. i am so so sorry, i should never have put you in the position where you had to stand up to me like that</em>
</p><p>The "Q Coldwater is typing..." message appears, stays for a long time, disappears, comes back. Eliot nearly eats shit on the last flight of stairs to the apartment, he's looking so intently at his phone. <em>weirdly i think it helped, bc you listened to me,</em> says the message that finally arrives. <em>we should maybe practice that but NOT WITH YOU BEING A DICK</em></p><p><em>agreed.</em> Eliot can't manage to send anything longer, he's this close to both laughing and crying. Fuck, who is this goddamn ridiculous man? Why the hell does he think Eliot deserves him? <em>Eliot</em>, of all people?</p><p>
  <em>can u come over tomorrow 3pm ish?</em><br/>
<em>bring sherlock Holmes i forgot it</em>
</p><p><em>i'll text when i'm heading over,</em> Eliot types finally, and goes upstairs, knowing he'd better get to sleep early. His body is going to wake him up at fucking six in the morning, alarm or no alarm, in anticipation of seeing Quentin again at three.</p><p>--</p><p>"It's like these role-playing exercises I had to do in therapy," Quentin says, shaking his head. "They always feel completely ridiculous, but you eventually internalize some of them. I think I’m starting to internalize this, the more we do it."</p><p>"Well, I'm no therapist--"</p><p>"Fucking thank <em>God</em>."</p><p>"--but I am an Actor," Eliot says, pronouncing it with a capital A to make Quentin roll his eyes, "And I can do scene work for days. So. Hey, baby, can you get me a glass of water?"</p><p>"No," Quentin says, "Get it yourself."</p><p>"Okay," Eliot says pleasantly, and gets up from his end of the couch, still moving neither quickly nor slowly, just steadily.</p><p>"And get me one too," Quentin adds, as Eliot's standing at the sink.</p><p>Eliot returns to the couch with two glasses of water, sits back, throws his feet up on Q's coffee table (still some cheap IKEA bullshit, he'd never do that on anything actually nice). "Tell me a story," he says.</p><p>"Once upon a time, in the land of fuck you, no I won't." Quentin says happily.</p><p>"Pass me that book over there?"</p><p>"Don't feel like it." Quentin sprawls backwards, arms folded behind his head. His feet reach to Eliot's legs, and Eliot flinches for a moment, but even when his toes touch Eliot's thigh he seems to be fine.</p><p>They keep at it for a while, until Eliot is truly searching his brain for more orders to give. He's watching Quentin closely the whole time, and Quentin is watching him, and it does feel completely ridiculous. But Eliot is, in fact, an Actor, and he can stay in character as "person who never snarks back and has an endless list of minor things he wants from his partner" for as long as Quentin can handle it. That's what his job is, here.</p><p>Eventually Quentin looks out the window, where the first rays of sunset are staining the sky orange, and says, "Okay, I'm calling it. Spoon?"</p><p>"Always," Eliot says, and gets into position. Quentin's arm wraps around his waist, pulling their bodies tight together, and his top leg hooks over Eliot's shins. This is their recently-discovered new possibility, adding legs to the equation, and Eliot sinks into the warmth of it like he's coming home.</p><p>"Want me to read?" he asks, when they're settled. The book is in reach, on the far side of the coffee table, with a lot of stretching or a little telekinesis. Quentin's been okay with that, too, more and more, asking Eliot to float his model plane around the room and laughing inexplicably hard after he tells Eliot to do a barrel roll.</p><p>"Nah," Quentin says. The ends of his hair tickle the back of Eliot's neck. His voice is loose and calm, clearly sleepy. "I'd rather just nap."</p><p>"Perfect," Eliot says.</p><p>He doesn't close his eyes right away, as he feels Quentin's breathing slow and deepen behind him, his heartbeat thrumming faintly against his back. He enjoys this -- a <em>lot</em> -- but it's dangerous to let himself get too deep into it. Not only because he knows he can't have it forever, that after he's done what he can for Quentin, he'll need to go. But also because, with Quentin's leg looped over him, his forehead against the back of Eliot's neck, his fingers curled right at the hem of Eliot's shirt, sometimes brushing his belt--</p><p>--he hates to prove Margo right like this, but it makes him <em>horny as hell</em>.</p><p>He's woken up hard from their naps twice in the last week, like aching, almost-about-to-finish hard. Once he managed to will himself down before Quentin woke up; the other time he had to oh so casually step over to the bathroom and jack off <em>fast</em> because nothing was working, Quentin sleepily nuzzling the back of his neck and muttering in his ear about what they should order for dinner was just making things unbearable. He hopes Quentin didn't realize. Or maybe it would be good if he did, if he knew Eliot was so fucking hot for him but chose to hide it and take care of it himself instead of asking for things he knows he can't have?</p><p>It hadn't taken long at all to finish, at least, that second time. He'd just thought about the weight of Quentin's thigh over his legs and remembered how it felt in their other lifetime to push those soft thighs gently apart with his hands and he'd been gone.</p><p>He would really, <em>really</em> hate for the other part of Margo's prediction to come true, but. She does often know him better than he knows himself.</p><p>He takes care of business alone at night and alone in the shower in the morning, obviously, a man has needs, but it doesn't really seem to take much of the edge off. He's still so, so sensitive to touch -- to Quentin's touch, in particular. Things that <em>never</em> set him off before are like lightning bolts, now. He can't play with Quentin's hair, but Quentin can play with his, and when his fingers brush the shell of Eliot's ear it's electric. The sight of Quentin's bare feet crisscrossed at the ankles and resting on his lap, when he's never remotely been a foot guy. Holding hands and rubbing shoulders and Quentin's hand on his cheek, which has only turned out well once so far but Eliot fucking <em>prays</em> that it can happen again, and soon.</p><p>So he keeps his eyes open in the hopes that the less time his unconscious mind is running amok, the less likely he'll need to lunge for the bathroom to keep from proving Margo really, unbearably right.</p><p>Quentin doesn't nap long, this time -- Eliot can feel his stomach rumbling, actually, they're pressed together so tight, so he's expecting it when Quentin snorts and shakes his head and pushes himself up on an elbow.</p><p>"Pizza?" he says blearily.</p><p>"Works for me," Eliot says. He's fine, he's doing fine. He'd rather stay cuddled here with Quentin until he starves to death but he's fine.</p><p>"Your turn to order," Quentin says, and leans down and plants a light kiss on Eliot's cheek.</p><p>Eliot freezes, terrified (although simultaneously elated that maybe this fuck up isn't entirely his fault, this time, except that he's so eminently kissable?), and Quentin does too. But he doesn't move away, or curl up, or whimper. And slowly, so slowly, he leans down and does it again.</p><p>Fuck, if Eliot thought that holding hands was electric, this is a full-on lightning strike while flying a kite with a key tied to the string and standing in a swimming pool. He <em>wants</em>, so badly, to turn and meet Quentin's mouth with his own. He's halfway hard, true, but mostly his heart just aches, a bone-deep longing that's going to make him start crying in a minute if something doesn't give.</p><p>And the thing that gives is better than he could have imagined, as Quentin says, soft but determined, "Can you roll over onto your back?"</p><p>Eliot does, and sees his face, that lovely open face, a tiny little frown line between his eyebrows but mostly just curious. Eliot hooks his thumbs into his belt loops to keep his arms safely out of the way.</p><p>"Don't move, okay?" Quentin says, and Eliot nods breathlessly.</p><p>Quentin leans down again, and kisses him on the cheek, right at the top of his cheekbone. He kisses the outer corner of his eyebrow, his temple. He kisses the spot Eliot missed shaving this morning. He kisses Eliot on the tip of his nose, which almost makes Eliot's mouth twitch into a smile, but somehow he manages to keep a straight face. His heart is pounding in his chest like a fucking jackhammer as Quentin leans down again, a little further over, and kisses him on the lips.</p><p>It takes everything, <em>everything</em> that Eliot has in him not to surge up into the kiss. Not to push, or use tongue, or grab Quentin by the shoulders flip him over grind into him as he licks his way into his mouth make him moan-- but he hangs on, somehow, just moves his mouth gently in response to Quentin's. Quentin finishes one kiss, pauses with his mouth just above Eliot's, ducks down for another. Eliot remembers being kissed this way, sitting on the mosaic in the warm Fillorian night, Quentin tentative but hopeful as he leaned forward, out of the fucking blue, and put that first crucial crack into Eliot's preconceived notions of who Q could be, who they could be. </p><p>Quentin pulls back, searching Eliot's face.</p><p>"You okay?" Eliot whispers. He can tell he's blushing, his face feels like it's on fucking fire, and he's <em>never</em> been this keyed up from just this.</p><p>"Yeah," Quentin says, sounding shocked with himself. He laughs, softly, then loud. "Fuck, yes."</p><p>"I'm not gonna move," Eliot babbles. "I won't move until you tell me to, just please, <em>please</em> stay okay."</p><p>Quentin makes a pained noise. "Right, that's probably best," he says, and leans down again, kisses Eliot, harder this time. There's tongue. Eliot can't believe there's <em>tongue</em>, it's the most miraculous thing that's ever happened, ever. Quentin strokes his hair, and kisses him again, and leans his gorgeous, solid weight against Eliot's chest.</p><p>Finally he pulls back and collapses with his head on Eliot's shoulder, and Eliot is scared again until he hears Q laughing, so joyful it's kind of crazed.</p><p>"I'm sorry," Quentin says, through his giggles.</p><p>"For <em>what</em>?" Eliot asks. </p><p>"That I can kiss you and you can't kiss me," Quentin says. "Not yet, I don't think."</p><p>"I'll take it," Eliot says frantically. "I'll take anything, you fucking-- I love you, Q, <em>fuck</em>." And there's that real honesty again. That’s going to be a problem, when he comes to the end of his plan and leaves, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.</p><p>"Mm," Quentin says, then sits all the way up, shooting a longing glance at Eliot's mouth that makes Eliot's heart sing. He turns his head, looking for the phone or the pizza menu, probably, and stops, a stunned look on his face, at the <em>absolutely raging</em> erection that is incredibly obvious through the front of Eliot's pants.</p><p>Eliot stays very, very still. "Sorry, Q," he says, trying to sound sheepish but honestly a little too horny to manage it.</p><p>"I'm--" Quentin looks down at his own hands. They're not shaking. They're <em>not shaking</em>. "I'm okay."</p><p>"I'm so fucking glad you're okay," Eliot says. "Can I please go take care of things in the bathroom, or--"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, go," Quentin says, shoving him in the shoulder a little, and Eliot full-body rolls off the couch so he won't accidentally put a hand anywhere he shouldn't while he’s trying to sit up. In the bathroom, he closes his eyes and remembers just a moment ago, Quentin’s tongue on his lips, and bites his lip hard to keep from moaning out loud as he comes.</p><p>He cleans up and washes his hands and really, <em>really</em> wishes he could just take a couple more minutes and go again right away, but he has to have boundaries, here, especially if his dick is going to decide to push those boundaries of its own accord. Quentin is setting down the phone when he emerges.</p><p>"You weren't here to object so I ordered it without the olives this time," he says, looking triumphant.</p><p>"You still want me to stay for dinner?" Eliot asks, just to check.</p><p>Quentin looks at him blankly, then blushes. "Of course I still want you to stay," he says. "I want to kiss you again before you go. But I need a break, or I'm-- also going to want to take care of things in the bathroom, maybe. And, that, I'm not sure."</p><p>"Your pace," Eliot says immediately. "You've got the reins." His brain is unhelpfully supplying memories of Quentin touching himself. He absolutely could go again right away. Right now. Instead, he crosses the room deliberately and picks up their book, settles down on the couch. "Reading okay?"</p><p>"Good idea," Quentin says, and stays at the kitchen table. He closes his eyes as Eliot picks up and finds the place they left off last time, deep in the heart of the mystery of lady something-or-other's whats-it-called. Q’s been closing his eyes a lot lately, just listening to Eliot's voice without the visuals. Eliot hopes that's a good sign and not a bad one.</p><p>The pizza, though bereft of olives, is good. Eliot reads another chapter after dinner, then looks at his phone and winces at the time.</p><p>"I should go," he says.</p><p>"Okay," Quentin says. His face is determined, his eyes intent. "Stand right there."</p><p>Eliot does, rooted in place, as Quentin walks up to him and leans up for a soft kiss. There's just a tiny bit of air between their bodies, still, and Quentin's hands are tucked into his pockets. But it lasts, and lasts, and when Quentin pulls away Eliot feels floaty, feels far more than a single kiss has any right to make him feel.</p><p>That’s going to be a problem, too, eventually. But that’s an After-Eliot problem. Now-Eliot can enjoy it while it lasts.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Ch 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You don't know what it's like, Bambi," Eliot says mournfully, letting his head fall back against the moss-covered side of the hot spring.</p>
<p>"I don't know what it's like to have the person I'm fucking not be able to get me off and have to take matters into my own hands?" Margo asks dryly. "I am a woman, Eliot. We <em>all</em> know what that's like." She shoots a back-me-up-here look at Fen, who is tucked under Eliot's arm, leaning against his side.</p>
<p>"We certainly do," Fen says emphatically, and then seems to remember she's sitting next to her husband and pulls a hilariously horrified expression. "Not you, obviously, Eliot, but-- other people."</p>
<p>"No, if you've ever had to fake it with me, that shame is on my head, and I owe you some orgasms," Eliot says, draining the dregs of his wine glass. "But it's not just that I can’t get off with the person I'm fucking, it's that we <em>can't</em> fuck. We both want to, it's just-- not a good idea."</p>
<p>They haven't been trying to do anything past kissing, and miracle of miracles, they've gone almost three weeks with no disasters. Eliot decided last week to take a planned vacation in Fillory, to give them some space and try to keep their streak going a little longer. Quentin was reluctant, but agreed when he realized that some kind of convention something-or-other was happening over the weekend Eliot wanted to be away, and busily started making plans with Julia about panels and how much money to spend at the dealer's room. Eliot doesn't think he's talking about drugs, but, you know, stranger things have happened.</p>
<p>So here he is, basking in the hot springs of the far western mountains, with his two best girls and a whole lot of very terrible wine. It's almost like old times.</p>
<p>"If your marriage spell was still working," Margo points out, "you wouldn't be having this issue. Q wouldn't be able to get you hard no matter what he did to you. We could always renew your vows, now that magic's back."</p>
<p>"Mm, no thanks," Eliot says, and then it's his turn to remember he's sitting next to his wife. He presses a kiss to the top of Fen's head. Her hair is wet and smells like strange minerals from swimming in the hot springs. "Sorry, dearest. No offense meant."</p>
<p>"None taken," Fen says. "The whole point of that spell was to secure the line of succession, anyway, and it's not like Quentin's going to get pregnant with your bastard. They really should have written that loophole into the spell," she says thoughtfully. Her wine glass is still mostly full, but there are spots of pink in her cheeks. "If you're fucking someone who can't get pregnant, well, who the fuck cares?" The Earth cursing rolls off her tongue a little sloppily, but she’s definitely been spending time with Margo, and her inflection is improving.</p>
<p>"But then you get into the technicalities," Margo says. "Like, if someone fucks me in the ass, I'm not getting pregnant. But slide two inches south, and we have a problem. Or we go at it on one particular day of the month, I'm probably fine, but same time next week, who knows. Then you start getting into the what counts as sex, what counts as virginity, and all that patriarchal bullshit. If everyone would just be adults and use their dicks responsibly, it would be so much easier."</p>
<p>"I don't think the gods who made the laws could be trusted to use their dicks responsibly," Eliot points out. "Nor did they seem to realize there were more options for fucking than one dick plus one vagina. They were limited by their own tiny imaginations, and thus, limited us."</p>
<p>"But no more," Fen says, her voice almost rising to a shout as she lifts her glass, sloshing wine into the water. "To freedom!"</p>
<p>"Freedom!" Eliot and Margo echo, raising their glasses.</p>
<p>"And fucking!" Fen shouts, collapsing in giggles as Eliot and Margo repeat her toast.</p>
<p>"What about you, dearest?" Eliot asks Fen, suddenly curious. "We're in this together, but if I'm making room for one more, you could too. Anyone interesting out there?"</p>
<p>"I don't think so," Fen says, her face scrunching up in deep thought. "I'm more of a one-trick pony. Or a one <em>dick</em> pony, more like," she says, grinning hugely and elbowing Eliot in the ribs.</p>
<p>"So you don't want me to bring Q back here and make this a party of three, is what you're saying," Eliot says, before he even realizes it's out of his mouth.</p>
<p>The pink in Fen's cheeks deepens. "Would you do that?" she asks. "Would <em>he</em> do that?"</p>
<p>"I don't know, actually," Eliot says. And he's not sure he likes the idea, now that he thinks about it for more than a split-second. He loves when Quentin's energy is focused on him, single-minded. He's not sure he'd like seeing him splitting his focus between two people. Or, worse, ignoring Eliot in favor of the body type that he worries Q might prefer, actually, when push comes to shove. It had been one thing with Arielle, they had been <em>married</em>. And way back when with Margo, well, he and Margo had figured out how to share a boy long, long before Q came along. But with a different woman? It might just push too many of the wrong buttons.</p>
<p>This is a peak Before-Eliot problem, trying to figure out whether he'd actually like a threesome with both of his partners based solely on what would get him off best and not what they'd prefer. He can't do this, as Now-Eliot. He has to be better. But the wine and the heat are doing their thing, and it's odd how much easier Before-Eliot's life was in some ways. He had no idea how good he had it.</p>
<p>"I don't think it's a good idea to bring up any time soon," he says, aware he's been lost in thought for a little too long and Fen and Margo are staring at him. "But if you're interested, it wouldn't hurt to ask, when the time is right."</p>
<p>It might hurt to ask, actually. That's a real possibility. But probably Eliot will be out of Quentin's hair before the time becomes right, in all likelihood, so they'll never find out.</p>
<p>"We'll see," Fen says, and her face is still a little flushed and it's <em>adorable</em>. She takes a big sip of her wine, glass cupped in both hands.</p>
<p>Eliot clumsily changes the subject to the upcoming Festival of Leaves that Fen mentioned earlier, and his girls are more than happy to talk about the planning and logistics and how <em>fucking annoying</em> Tick is being about all of it. Margo immediately shoots down his proposal that she establish the title of Festival Princess for him as a consolation prize for never having been Prom royalty. Fen attempts to convince them that the celebration's traditional squash-and-toad tarts are delicious, actually, a true delicacy, they'll change their tune when they actually try them.</p>
<p>"You're going to come visit during the Festival, right?" Fen asks Eliot. "You can bring Quentin -- just for the visit, not for anything else," she adds quickly.</p>
<p>"I'll be here. You'll just have to send me a bunny when it starts, the seasons aren't really lining up properly this year."</p>
<p>"It's in almost exactly a month, Fillory-time," Fen says. "That's what, maybe six weeks on Earth?"</p>
<p>"Something like that," Eliot says. "It fluctuates. Who knows, maybe I'll come back right on time just by chance."</p>
<p>Because six weeks... that could be long enough, at the rate Quentin is improving. If they don't have any major setbacks, if Eliot can keep himself in check and avoid fucking up for that long. Eliot can ease him back into being okay, back away slowly and carefully until Q barely notices he's gone, and then hightail it out of there before he has a chance to cause any more damage. </p>
<p>It won't be as good as Before-Eliot's life, but who knows, maybe being After-Eliot won't be too bad.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Quentin greets him in the door of his apartment when he gets back, basically bouncing on his toes, smiling. Eliot loves his dimples.</p>
<p>"Missed me, darling?" he asks, walking up to Quentin carefully, not getting too close or looming too much.</p>
<p>Quentin leans up and kisses him, joyfully. There's no space between their bodies, now, Q's chest pressed against Eliot's. "A ton," he says.</p>
<p>There's a new poster on the wall of the apartment for some space-related thing Eliot's never heard of, and a variety of figurines and a stack of shiny new paperbacks and several sets of vividly colored polyhedral dice. "I may have gone a little overboard," Quentin says sheepishly at Eliot's raised eyebrow, but he's still smiling. Fuck, those dimples are going to be hard to give up, when he's After-Eliot. "But it's been.. a long fucking time since I got to enjoy anything without knowing that something was trying to kill me, or having some other huge problem to deal with in the background. So I just kind of went wild."</p>
<p>"Nerd wild is at least a safe wild," Eliot says. "You're not going to wake up in withdrawal or with an STD from too many conversations about Star Wars."</p>
<p>"You'd be surprised," Quentin quips, then crosses to the dining table. He picks up a little carved piece of wood, holds it against another oddly-shaped piece. "I've mostly been working on this while I waited for you to get back," he says. "Julia went to help Kady with something, so it's been keeping me occupied."</p>
<p>Eliot walks over to examine it. It's... a jumble of little unpainted wooden pieces? "Some kind of puzzle?"</p>
<p>"A 3D puzzle of a dragon," Quentin says. "You kind of have to build it from the bottom up or it collapses. Gravity."</p>
<p>"You know Wexler's Tessellated Visualization could finish this in about five minutes, right?" Eliot asks, picking up one of the pieces. It might go on top of what Q has already built? Or maybe that angle is wrong?</p>
<p>"It's a <em>puzzle</em>, Eliot," Quentin says, exasperated. "Putting it together the hard way is the fucking point."</p>
<p>"I am going to be hopeless at this," Eliot says. Real honesty. "But I'll do my best, if you want my help." And isn't that just fucking poetic?</p>
<p>"I'd love that," Quentin says, easing himself into a chair (he has two, now) so he doesn't jostle the puzzle as he sits.</p>
<p>It takes them the better part of the day, and Quentin has to order Eliot not to cheat and use magic (just one tiny little levitation spell, so they can build the head of the dragon in place without finding and assembling all the damn neck pieces first). Quentin is glowing, when they slot the last piece into place, and not just from the late afternoon sun shining through the window behind him. There's a rightness to watching him finish something, a satisfaction Eliot can’t explain that washes over him as the puzzle comes together at last. He wishes he'd been alive to see it when Quentin solved the mosaic, finally, that must have been glorious. He keeps forgetting to ask what the right pattern actually was.</p>
<p>"Hell yes," Quentin says proudly. He tips his head to the side, considering. "I wonder if I could enchant it so it animates and walks around every time you put the last piece into place?"</p>
<p>"You definitely could," Eliot says. "Margo and I actually did something like that my first year. It wasn't a puzzle, it was-- well, it was a strap-on," he finishes, weirdly embarrassed under Quentin's open, curious gaze. "I made a spell to make it start thrusting on its own if you put it in a particular harness, so the person wearing it wouldn't have to do so much work. But it's the same concept, automatic action triggered by contact with another inanimate object."</p>
<p>Quentin is just staring at him. Finally he says, "Was it for you or for Margo?"</p>
<p>"Yes," Eliot answers simply. "I think I remember the spell, though. I'm happy to try it."</p>
<p>Quentin lets him off the hook, thankfully, and finds a piece of paper and a pen so Eliot can show him the basics and they can figure out the circumstances. A puzzle with several dozen pieces is a lot more complex than Eliot's previous project, which only had two, but the weather is pretty stable and Alpha Centauri is in a favorable place right now, so they figure it out faster than they figured out the actual puzzle. Eliot is so much better at seeing where pieces of magical formulas fit with each other than he is with seeing where little bits of wood fit with each other. When they have it all set, Eliot hesitates.</p>
<p>"Do you want to do this now? Or wait for Julia to do it with you some other time?"</p>
<p>"Now is fine," Quentin says. He looks at Eliot's uneasy face, and adds, "Cooperative magic is a-- never-did thing."</p>
<p>"Fucking thank God," Eliot says, not wanting to think about what kind of cooperative magic the Monster would have wanted to cast with Quentin, and lifts his hands into position.</p>
<p>It's always intoxicating, the flow of power through his body and into a beautiful piece of magic. It's even more intoxicating when the power is flowing through him, into Quentin, through Quentin, into him, and then twining together into deep blue tendrils that weave between the puzzle pieces and fade into a shimmering net. The hairs on the back of Eliot's neck are standing on end, and his fingers are tingling, as they bring the spell to a close.</p>
<p>The wooden dragon lashes its tail back and forth and stretches its neck, roaring silently. Quentin takes off the last piece of its tail, and it settles into stillness, then when he puts the piece back it picks up where it left off and paces menacingly around the table top.</p>
<p>Quentin carefully pops a piece out of its back, freezing it in place. "We probably shouldn't leave it on too long. We used up most of the ambient doing the spell."</p>
<p>"Right," Eliot says. He feels a little out of it still, but he can tell there isn't much extra power left in the air. "Well, this was a great accomplishment. I say we celebrate with Greek food."</p>
<p>Quentin reaches out and takes Eliot's hand, gently, fingers dragging across his open palm. "Yeah," he says, also sounding a little fuzzy. He stands, slowly, and leans in, and kisses Eliot.</p>
<p>It gets easier, every time, for Eliot to accept that this kiss will be okay. It gets harder, every time, to accept that this kiss is all he can have. A few weeks of careful, successful kissing have taken the edge off his body's desperation, he's no longer hard and aching just from having Quentin's lips and tongue on his, but his heart wants, and <em>wants</em>. He's started wondering how long he should push this, if he should get Quentin all the way through being able to have sex again before he backs off. One last wonderful go would be, well, wonderful, but it could hurt in so many ways. If Quentin spirals down again, it could take months to build him back up, months before Eliot can go be After-Eliot and Quentin can be free of him. If he doesn't spiral, and it's good, it's going to tear Eliot's heart out to leave, no matter how much he knows it's the right thing to do.</p>
<p>There's another coward's way out, here, he realizes, and that's staying. Staying to hurt and remind, just because it feels so good to him. He's going to have to avoid that, too, when the time comes.</p>
<p>For now, though, Quentin's mouth is soft and his fingers are hot against Eliot's skin, tracing the pulse in his wrist, and he actually makes a small happy noise when Eliot opens his lips and lets their tongues find each other. That's new. It's also new when he takes Eliot's arm, guides it gently but firmly to his waist, presses Eliot's hand to his side until Eliot is confident it has a right to be there. Does it to the other one, too, so Eliot is holding him, at arm’s length like slow-dancing in middle school. </p>
<p>Maybe there's more ambient left than Eliot realized, because the air seems like it's singing with power all around them. Or maybe Eliot's just that happy.</p>
<p>Eventually they break apart, Quentin planting one last kiss on the tip of Eliot's nose and laughing at his own silliness.</p>
<p>"Crazy idea," he says, a little out of breath. But in a good way, not a hyperventilating way. "You want to stay the night?"</p>
<p>Eliot swallows a longing noise that he doesn't think is a good idea right now. "If you think I should," he says, "I'd love to."</p>
<p>"I do," Quentin says, "Although-- you may hate this, actually, maybe this won't work." His face crumples slightly, annoyed and sad.</p>
<p>"Why would I hate it?" Eliot asks, baffled.</p>
<p>"Because I think I'm going to ask you to sleep in your clothes, if you do stay," Quentin says. "Just-- in case I wake up in the middle of the night, and need to remember it's you. You-you."</p>
<p>That's it? That's the catch? Eliot would sleep on a goddamn bed of nails in his best silk shirt if Quentin asked him to. He owes him everything. "As much as it would normally pain me to break all of my rules about garment care," he says, "I will happily do so if it means I get to wake up next to you."</p>
<p>Quentin glows, again. Eliot loves him. Eliot <em>loves him.</em></p>
<p>The post-magic bliss fades, gradually, through the evening, but the Quentin bliss doesn't, as Eliot slides under the blankets with tie and belt and everything but his shoes still on, and gets to watch Quentin strip out of his t-shirt and jeans and into a different t-shirt and his underwear. Quentin does it in front of him, a little ostentatiously, even, like he's seeing if he can. Eliot gives him what seems like a safe amount of attention, eyes skimming along the span of his bare shoulders, the stretch of his stomach as he pulls his new shirt over his head. The thrill it gives him makes him feel like a fucking Victorian gentleman getting all hot and bothered at the sight of a woman's ankle. He bends his knees just a bit so there's some room under the blankets in case it becomes more physically obvious how much he's enjoying this.</p>
<p>"What?" Quentin asks, smiling but self-conscious, and Eliot realizes he's been staring too long at the side of his neck.</p>
<p>"Just you, gorgeous," he says. Quentin rolls his eyes. Eliot lets him, for now. He's not sure how to convince him he's serious about the compliment other than pushing him down and having his way with him. That always worked well, for Before-Eliot. It would emphatically not work well now.</p>
<p>Quentin slides around him, throwing an arm across his chest and a leg over his thighs, big-spooning him from the side. Eliot wishes with all his heart he wasn't still wearing so many clothes. He'd love to feel Quentin's skin against his. But that would be far too much, far too quickly -- and the faster this goes, the sooner it’s over. </p>
<p>"Love you, El," Quentin says, settling his face against the side of Eliot's neck.</p>
<p>"Love you, Q," Eliot responds, and lets himself be happy with what he has, for a moment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Ch 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's no way this streak can last. Five weeks since Eliot’s visit to Fillory? With zero tears, zero panic attacks? Absurd. The other shoe's going to drop, and hard, any day now. Eliot knows it. It's how things go, in his life.</p>
<p>He <em>thinks</em> Quentin knows it too, and is just refusing to acknowledge it. Because he keeps pushing, and pushing, moving unbelievably fast through steps Eliot thought they'd need months to master. It's a terrible idea. It's going to end in so much pain. Eliot isn't strong enough to give it up.</p>
<p>After that one successful sleepover, Eliot stayed over again a couple nights later, still fully dressed, but then another night in an undershirt and boxers, and then sleeping naked like he prefers. He was terrified, that night, of Quentin's eyes on him, knowing that just the sight of the body he exists in could very well be the thing that would send Quentin's mind back into the darkness. But Quentin stared, boldly, taking his time about it. So Eliot showed off a little, stretching out his shoulders, fixing his hair in front of Quentin's mirror to highlight the muscles of his back when he raised his arms. He stopped just short of dropping something deliberately so he could bend over to pick it up. That would be overkill. He’s stayed over all but a few nights, since then, starting to build up a small collection of shirts and other necessary items in a drawer in Quentin’s dresser. </p>
<p>And now there’s today, when Quentin wakes up in the morning rumpled and bleary and... hard. It’s the first time since Eliot got his body back that he’s seen him hard, they’ve been so careful not to push to a point where Quentin would get there. But Eliot woke up and saw it, and now here he is who-knows-how-many minutes later, still staring at the rise of the sheets between Quentin’s legs and indulging in a little fantasy about what that hard curve would feel like if Quentin rolled over and pressed it against him.</p>
<p>"Um," Quentin says, sitting up and staring in sleepy confusion at his own cock. "Huh."</p>
<p>"Huh indeed," Eliot says, unable to stop himself.</p>
<p>Quentin looks desperately embarrassed and excuses himself to the bathroom, and stays in for long enough for Eliot to wonder whether he's just fighting through the difficulty of peeing with an erection or having a panic attack. He returns, still embarrassed, but happy embarrassed, and looking wide awake.</p>
<p>"I, ah," he says, "Um. I came."</p>
<p>Eliot has, truly, no idea how to respond to that. "That's. Good?"</p>
<p>"It's very good," Quentin says, sitting down on the bed and wrapping his arms around his knees. "I. Um. I haven't since. A while. Except, dreams-- bad ones, mostly, but. It's been a weird time," he finishes.</p>
<p>"I didn't realize you were having bad dreams," Eliot says, heartsick. How had he not known that? How had he not expected it? Had he been peacefully sleeping through Quentin's terror, in the night, and thinking they were doing fine?</p>
<p>"Less and less, and none since you started sleeping over," Quentin says. "I think now that I'm used to you being around, when there's someone else in the bed with me my body kind of, knows it must be you. When I was sleeping alone, I kept-- expecting that I wouldn't wake up alone."</p>
<p>It hurts to hear, like each tidbit about how exactly Eliot's body tortured him hurts, but it's data to work with. If Eliot can build a picture of what harm was done, he can figure out when the harm has been repaired, and leave before he starts accidentally undoing all their hard work. "That… seems a little backwards, that having me here is more comforting than not having me, but I'll definitely take it," he says.</p>
<p>"I don't know how it works," Quentin says ruefully. "It doesn't follow any logic, that I can tell. There were just as many nights I fell asleep with it already here as there were nights it showed up later." He shrugs and hugs his knees more firmly, but he's not shaking, as far as Eliot can tell. "But so far you've been proving that you're not going to, like, wake me up with your cock in my ass, so. I think I'm finally starting to believe you're safe."</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em> this monster, seriously, what a gauche thing to do. Eliot would never, unless a partner specifically asked for it ahead of time and they worked out safewords and everything. Eliot's had quite enough in his life of people acting like he's a predator just because he's queer -- that's been one of the most violating things, knowing that his body became just that the moment it left his custody. In a horrible, monkey’s-paw kind of way, it's good that Quentin was the only target of the Monster's attacks, because at least Quentin knows that Eliot isn't really like that.</p>
<p>"So," Quentin is saying, when Eliot blinks himself out of his self-loathing. He looks nervous, and Eliot tenses a bit, not sure if he missed something he was supposed to respond to. "I think this means I can maybe. Try sex?"</p>
<p>"That seems overly ambitious," Eliot says. "I don't--" Real honesty. "I can keep my hands off you just fine when I'm paying attention, but I worry that if I get too into it, I'll lose focus and do something you don't like."</p>
<p>"I could tie you up," Quentin offers, and <em>whoa</em> is that not what Eliot expected to hear. "We never-- I was always the one tied up."</p>
<p>"If you're serious about this," Eliot says slowly, trying to keep his voice even through his growing arousal, "You know I'll follow your lead. But I want you to think, <em>really</em> think, whether this is going to work. Because if it goes bad the first time..."</p>
<p>"I know," Quentin says. "I know, that would be... bad. Fuck, El, I really want you. Just thinking about it is." He shudders, in a way that makes Eliot's heart pound. "Already getting me going."</p>
<p>Eliot's glad he's lying on his side, because if he were on his back the tent in the covers would be extremely obvious right now, and that's not the right backdrop for this conversation. "Let's say, tomorrow at the earliest," he says, in his best now-let's-be-reasonable-about-this tone. "Maybe even day after. Give yourself some time to make sure you're thinking with your, ah, best judgment. Play with yourself when I'm not here and see if anything changes, or feels wrong."</p>
<p>"Can I at least," Quentin says, squirming a little. His face is flushed. "Can I play with myself now, with you watching?"</p>
<p>"God yes," Eliot says, against every scrap of his own best judgment, but his brain fully shorted out at Quentin saying the words <em>play with myself</em>. And he doesn't have a chance to walk it back -- Quentin makes a desperate noise and sheds his t-shirt in one motion, scoots down until he's lying flat on his back, reaches for the waistband of his underwear. </p>
<p>"Wait, wait, please," Eliot manages to say, somehow. "Before you-- get going. What do you want me to do?"</p>
<p>"I don't know, I don't," Quentin groans.</p>
<p>"Please, Q, this is important," Eliot says desperately. "We have to-- talk, first, we can't just jump in. Should I stay quiet, should I talk, do you want to look at me, can I touch myself? I won't touch you, I won't."</p>
<p>"Touch yourself," Quentin breathes, eyes closing and hands returning his waistband. "Under the covers, maybe, I don't care if you make a mess." He slides his thumbs down, and Eliot watches, mesmerized, as his briefs slide, baring smooth skin and dark curls and snagging a bit on the head of his cock. His <em>cock</em>, gorgeous and full. Head glistening with a smear of pre-come. Eliot has never wanted to taste anything so badly in his <em>life</em>.</p>
<p>He doesn't follow Quentin's instruction to touch himself. He can't possibly yet, it's going to be over the fucking second he gets some stimulation, and he wants to focus on this. Quentin doesn't start right away, either. He kicks his underwear all the way off, then trails his hands down his own thighs, gently pushes them apart so his legs are splayed. His eyes are still closed, face a little frowny with concentration. It's like he's re-teaching himself how being touched feels, re-mapping where his fingers can go and how they can brush over his skin. When he finally runs his thumb up the length of his cock, he spasms, makes a noise like he can't believe how good it is. Eliot can't really believe either, honestly. He's <em>never</em> been this close from just watching someone.</p>
<p>Finally, when Eliot thinks he might actually pass out there's so little blood left in his brain, Quentin takes himself in hand and starts to stroke. Eliot recognizes every twitch and press of his fingers, knows exactly what it would feel like to be making them himself. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his <em>hands</em>, this is <em>weird</em> as hell. He needs about four sets of eyes, one to watch Quentin stroke himself, one to watch his face, one to notice how his back is already arching off the bed a bit and his heels are digging in, one for, who knows, just in case he figures out some other unbearably sexy thing to do that Eliot wants to memorize every millisecond of. Eliot only has one set, sadly, so he looks back and forth frantically, trying to drink in as many details as he can handle.</p>
<p>Quentin is making the most delicious little noises. Eliot wants to swallow him whole. Q’s cock is leaking and dark pink and he's not even moving his hand <em>fast</em>, not even applying that much pressure. "Mm," he whines, pleading -- with himself, maybe? "Mm, El, <em>yes</em>."</p>
<p>That does it, Eliot cannot be this hard for any longer without touching himself he is going to sprain something or maybe die. He tries not to make too much noise as he gets his hand down under the sheets and clamps his teeth on his tongue to keep from screaming when his fingers wrap around his cock. Quentin didn't say he could talk, so he won’t. This is about Quentin. Quentin, who is fully arching off the bed, toes curling, hips jerking way out of proportion to how softly he's touching himself. Quentin, who is <em>sobbing,</em> almost, chest heaving. <em>Quentin,</em> who screams and grinds his head back into the pillows as he comes, thick streaks of white all the way up his chest and almost hitting his chin even though he literally just came ten minutes ago. </p>
<p>Eliot buries his face in his pillow and doesn't actually make a sound as he comes so violently his lower back aches.</p>
<p>He can't breathe right, for a moment, panting with his eyes closed and his nerves on fire. When he looks up, Quentin is boneless, one arm thrown off the side of the bed, the other hand resting gently on his stomach, smearing the come there with his fingertips. Eliot's afraid to speak first, but <em>fuck</em>, he hopes Q knows how beautiful he looks right now.</p>
<p>"So uh," Quentin says finally, eyes still closed. "I think I'm. Just gonna do that, for the rest of the day. Probably."</p>
<p>"Mm-hm," Eliot says, barely trusting himself with words. "I'm going to go, let you do your thing." He cannot, <em>cannot</em> watch another round of that without being able to touch Quentin.</p>
<p>Quentin makes a pained noise, but nods. "Love you, El," he says, his usual sign-off. </p>
<p>Eliot wants to kiss him. He wants to do-- everything imaginable, and some things that haven't been invented yet, to him. "Text me about tomorrow," he says instead, and grabs his clothes with sticky hands and bolts into the living room before Before-Eliot can take over and ruin this.</p>
<p>Sometime in the early afternoon, Eliot's phone buzzes and he reads, <em>day after tomrrow i think? also i want to fuck you, is that ok?</em></p>
<p>Eliot makes an exhausted noise. Why did Quentin have to ask him <em>that,</em> <em>now</em>, when he's just finished for the third time since he got home and is honestly kind of sore, and now all he can think about is Quentin sinking slowly into him and his dick is stirring yet again. <em>more than ok, AMAZING, as long as you're good.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>i'm good.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>counting down the hours</em>
  <br/>
  <em>do you have rope? if you want me to tie you up?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>also regular lube, i cant use the spell</em>
</p>
<p><em>i'll get some</em>, Eliot texts back one-handed, and then puts his phone on silent for a little while longer.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>It would be really, really convenient to be able to text across planes of existence. Or even email. Bunnies just do not cut it. It's impossible for Eliot to distill "so Quentin has abruptly rediscovered his sexuality and it appears that he has a backlog of several months' worth of sexual energy to power him, if he fucks me to death tomorrow please tell Fen I love her but know in your heart I died happy" into a four-word phrase that can be shouted at Margo in a hoarse voice.</p>
<p>And as he jitters his way around the house, that intervening day, he starts really wishing that he had Margo here in person to talk to. Wishing, as he makes way too big a batch of chocolate chip cookies, and ruthlessly purges anything that’s not quite this season from his closet, and blasts music and sings along at the top of his lungs in the shower, that she could give him some of her purely-Margo advice. Because he's starting to come to the conclusion that this is probably-- it.</p>
<p>If this works, if he and Quentin can have sex, then he's probably done all he can. Together they’ve gotten Quentin from a shaking, quivering mess through the stage of tentative okay-ness and back around to almost the person he was before, essentially. After that, there will be nowhere Eliot can take him but down. Eliot doesn't know how to not be fucked up. Quentin deserves better than that. If they can fuck, then Quentin's good, and Now-Eliot needs to become After-Eliot.</p>
<p>It’s a searingly painful thought. He <em>needs</em> to be strong, here, but he’s just not, especially when it comes to sex. No easier way to Eliot’s heart than through orgasms, and it would be so easy to just -- stay with Q and keep fucking until he really, truly fucked everything up.</p>
<p>So he needs his Bambi to talk some sense into him, desperately, but if he goes through the portal who knows what day it'll be when he gets back, even if he just spends a few hours there. Time moves so strangely, in between their worlds. He can’t risk missing his appointment with Q. </p>
<p>He finds a bunny -- they’re always lurking at the edges of the world, he’s learned the trick of finding them when he needs one -- and sends it to Margo with the message, FESTIVAL TIME YET? </p>
<p>He’s just stepping out of his favorite sex toy store, rope and lube and EMT shears in a plain brown paper bag, when it drops into existence in front of him and yells, “THREE DAYS.”</p>
<p>Three days, Fillory time. The timing should work out perfectly.</p>
<p>He stays up too late that night, full of anxious energy and waffling between jacking off to take the edge off and saving it for when Quentin can touch him. For when <em>Quentin</em> can <em>touch him</em>. That’s an intense thought. It takes quite a bit of deep breathing and distracting himself with sad movies to get that out of his head, and finally exhaust him so much he can sleep.</p>
<p>When he gets to Quentin's apartment, it's obvious Quentin slept just as badly as he did -- dark circles under his eyes, pot of coffee brewed extra-strong and half-empty -- and Eliot's stomach sinks. This isn't going to work. They're in no shape for this.</p>
<p>"Good morning, my love," he says anyway, smiling.</p>
<p>Quentin steps right up to him, smiling as well, and sighs happily as he wraps his arms around Eliot's waist and rests his head on Eliot's chest. Eliot is a little stunned. Close, face-to-face hugs like this don’t usually work. Or at least, they haven’t yet. He leaves his hands by his sides. Maybe Quentin is just trying to short-circuit this before they actually begin? </p>
<p>But: "Hug me back, you dick," Quentin says, fondly annoyed, and Eliot can't say no to him when he's asking for something Eliot wants so badly. He circles Quentin's body with his arms, squeezing oh so gently. </p>
<p>"This is new," he says. Most of him is fizzing with happiness, but he has just enough focus left to do his job and talk them through this. </p>
<p>"Yeah," Quentin says, and Eliot can feel his smile against his chest. "I don't know, I feel like something-- gave, in a big way, the other day. And I just thought-- what if I try? What do I have to lose?"</p>
<p>Eliot has no idea how to answer that, because obviously Quentin knows that “All the progress we’ve painstakingly made over weeks” is a very real possibility, and he decided it was worth it anyway. He could go with real honesty and say, "Me, I have to leave when my work here is done," but he’s not quite ready to have that conversation yet. Instead, he asks, "How would you feel about cuddling all day, instead of sex? I really--" his voice breaks a little. "I <em>really</em> love this."</p>
<p>"In addition, maybe," Quentin says. "Not instead, though. I've been thinking about touching you for twenty-four hours, I can't wait any more."</p>
<p>Those words, in that voice, with this warmth pressed against his chest -- fuck, it's incredible. Eliot feels like his knees might buckle, he's so overwhelmed. "Shall we adjourn to the couch, then?" he asks. "Or right to the bed?"</p>
<p>"Bed," Quentin says firmly, and Eliot has to let go of him to grab the supplies and follow him into the bedroom. </p>
<p>“So, um, lie down, I think?” Quentin says, when they’re settled. Eliot follows instructions. It's impossible to pin down what he's feeling, exactly, some wild combination of terrified, excited, light-headed, twitchy. Quentin carefully swings one leg over Eliot's thighs, straddling him, pinning him in place with his body weight. His eyes are so intense, taking in every detail like he can x-ray vision his way down to Eliot's bones, his soul. He might be able to, for all Eliot knows. </p>
<p>"I'm going to take your clothes off," he says. "And then see where we go from there."</p>
<p>"Okay," Eliot breathes. "As long as-- you think you should."</p>
<p>Quentin makes a wordless noise and reaches for Eliot’s tie, undoes it, unbuttons his vest, starts opening his shirt button by button. He traces his fingers over every new inch of skin he reveals, staring at Eliot’s chest in a way that feels-- worshipful, almost. Like he's seeing something wondrous. </p>
<p>Eliot, in the meantime, is having a wondrous experience of his own, watching Quentin's face. His hair is falling into his eyes and his mouth is hanging barely open. There's just the tiniest bit of heat in his cheeks. And he looks <em>happy</em>, miraculously, not scared, not just determined. Eliot would stop him, if he thought he was just pushing through this to push through this. He likes to think he would, anyway. But that's a moot point, because Quentin clearly wants this, and there’s no way for Eliot to justify standing in his way.</p>
<p>They wriggle a bit to get Eliot all the way out of his shirt, and then Quentin pushes him gently back onto the bed, hands on his shoulders, and leans down and kisses him.</p>
<p>It starts soft, but it doesn't stay that way for long. Quentin licks into Eliot's mouth hungrily, greedily, gets his teeth into Eliot's lower lip just the way Eliot likes it. He cups Eliot's face in his hands, runs his fingers through Eliot's hair. He <em>touches</em>, so much, taking in every tiniest detail. Eliot is hard already, obviously, but that's taking a back seat to the ecstasy of having Quentin all over him like this, not out of control, just <em>hungry</em> for it. Wanting, so much. Wanting as much as Eliot wants.</p>
<p>Quentin keeps kissing him, even as he wriggles to make space between their bodies so he can undo Eliot's belt, his pants. He has to move for a moment so Eliot can actually get everything off, height differences being what they are, but the second the fabric hits the floor he's back, kissing Eliot hard, smoothing his hands over Eliot’s thighs, tracing the line of a hip bone.</p>
<p>“Mmf,” Eliot says, twitching a little. “Tickles.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Quentin breathes. He sits back on his heels, watches his own hands slide down the length of Eliot’s body. His lips are dark pink and wet from kissing. Eliot wants to taste them again.</p>
<p>“Kiss me, please?” he asks, soft. </p>
<p>“No,” Quentin says, and Eliot laughs and groans all at once, proud of him, but he did really want that kiss. Instead Quentin sheds his own shirt, getting tangled in the sleeves briefly. He rolls sideways off of Eliot, stretches out next to him, leans down, kisses Eliot’s collarbone, his shoulder. Eliot never knew he had this many nerve endings in such innocuous places on his body, but Quentin is finding millions of them and setting all of them on fire. </p>
<p>Eliot can’t hold in the noise he makes when Quentin’s fingers wrap around his cock, it rips out of the depths of his soul. Quentin strokes him slowly, and Eliot thinks he can feel the fucking ridges of his fingerprints move over his skin, he’s so sensitive. He closes his eyes -- having one fewer sense going means he can focus everything on feeling this, the drag of Quentin’s hand on him, the brush of Quentin’s lips against the side of his neck. He’s trying not to arch up off the bed, but it’s so <em>good</em>, Quentin’s giving him just enough to keep him gasping but it’s not enough, yet, to send him over the edge.</p>
<p>“God I love you,” he says. “Fuck, Q, <em>oh</em>.” </p>
<p>Quentin’s mouth vanishes from his neck and they’re kissing again, sloppy and deep. “I want you,” Quentin murmurs against his lips, between kisses. He’s got his fingers in Eliot’s hair again, then tracing the outside of Eliot’s ear, then cupping the back of Eliot’s neck. His other hand never stops moving on Eliot’s cock, and Eliot is whining into his mouth like he’s dying, he’s not sure he’s ever made these noises before. “I want you,” Quentin says again, and moves back to sink his teeth into the side of Eliot’s neck. Eliot moans happily at the sting of the bite, contrasting with the slow friction of pure pleasure up the length of his cock and over the head.</p>
<p>Quentin licks at Eliot’s neck where he bit, hot comfort over the sensitive skin. He kisses softly -- then barely brushes his lips over the spot -- then turns his head away, burying his face in the pillows. His hands leave Eliot’s body and curl into fists at his sides, and he tucks himself into a ball.</p>
<p>“Quentin?” Eliot is sitting up immediately, his heart instantly transitioning from pounding in arousal to pounding in fear. </p>
<p>“I want you,” Quentin says in a small voice, barely audible through the pillows, and then he starts crying.</p>
<p>Eliot is completely at a loss. He doesn't know what he did, what to say or do. His hands move towards Quentin's back -- will touching make it better? Will it make it worse? Finally he does the only thing he can think of that will definitely do no harm and gets up, throws his boxers on, grabs blankets from the living room and a couple of bottles of water from the fridge. </p>
<p>Quentin is still in the same place when he comes back, and he very carefully drapes a blanket over him, not touching. He's not even making any noise, now, but his shoulders are heaving with the kind of sobs that make Eliot's chest ache in sympathy.</p>
<p>"Q," he says, carefully, settling down cross-legged on the opposite side of the bed. Quentin doesn't flinch at the sound of his voice, which is good. Fuck, the bar for 'good' is so low right now. "What can I do?"</p>
<p>"I don't know--" Quentin gasps. "I can't, I want you to hold me but you <em>can't</em>, I can't, I'm--" his voice cracks and cuts off.</p>
<p>"Did I do something? That set this off?"</p>
<p>"No," Quentin says, anguished. "No, you didn't, you're perfect, it's me, it's always me, I always fuck up."</p>
<p>"That is incredibly far from the truth." Eliot pulls the second blanket he brought in around his own shoulders, mostly to give his arms something to cling to, since he can't cling to Quentin like he so badly wants to, tuck his head into Eliot's chest and hold him steady.</p>
<p>"It's true, I--" Quentin sobs. "God, I can't even fucking say it. I <em>wanted</em> it, El." He melts into tears, silent shudders racking his body.</p>
<p>"I wanted it too," Eliot says, confused. "I still do-- that's what we're doing here, I want to do what you want."</p>
<p>"Not <em>now</em>,” Quentin says, furiously. “Then. Before. With the-- I wanted it. I didn't want to want it, but I always did, every fucking time, I couldn't--"</p>
<p>Eliot's heart shatters. "Oh, Q," he breathes. "No, no, darling, it's not-- it's not your fault. Q?" His voice is growing in firmness. "It's <em>not</em> your fault. You did <em>nothing</em> wrong."</p>
<p>“You don’t understand,” Quentin says, a wild edge to his voice. “You weren’t there, it was like, I really, truly, <em>god please yes</em> kind of wanted it. I did that to <em>you,</em> I wanted you and it <em>wasn’t</em> you, I knew it wasn’t, and I fucking knew it was wrong and I just-- kept doing it anyway, I couldn’t-- it should make you <em>sick</em>, what I did--”</p>
<p>"Q. Quentin." Eliot can't have this. This is unacceptable, that this sweet boy thinks-- "I'm going to try holding you, okay? I’ll stop if you need to but just let me try." He crawls forward, wedges a hand under Quentin to tip him upright. Quentin flinches as he does so, as he expected, but Eliot is already pulling him back against his chest, wrapping long arms around his whole curled-up body over the top of the blanket and applying steady pressure. "Okay?"</p>
<p>Quentin doesn't say anything, he’s sobbing quietly again, but one hand sneaks its way out from under the blanket, grabbing Eliot's wrist and holding on, hard enough to bruise. So Eliot stays where he is, and stays quiet, and just lets himself be a solid presence surrounding Quentin, holding him together as he tries to shake apart.</p>
<p>Eventually, he asks, "Did you tell anyone this, when it was happening? Julia?" He's not surprised when Quentin shakes his head no, fiercely. "Can you tell me?"</p>
<p>And Quentin does, finally. He tells Eliot everything, what he offered, what the Monster took whether or not he offered it, how hard he tried to stay in control. It pours out of him in a desperately guilty torrent, every kiss and touch and conversation and absolutely impossible corner he found himself in. Eliot listens, heart in his throat. It's exactly as bad as he was expecting it to be, made so much worse by the fact that Quentin blames himself for every awful second of it. Every time the Monster pushed past a boundary, Quentin thinks he let it. Every time it made him come, made his body respond in any way, Quentin thinks he should have been able to avoid responding if he had just been-- stronger? A better person? It's not quite clear.</p>
<p>He gets to the part Eliot knows something about already, when the spell they needed to use required that the Monster kill someone, and Quentin thinks <em>that</em> is his fault, that somehow he could have found another way, or been stronger, or better at sex, and avoided all of it. His thoughts are snarled together like brambles, and Eliot feels hollow inside thinking about how much pain he's been holding, this entire time, when Eliot never even fucking realized.</p>
<p>"And then you were back," Quentin finishes. "And, you know the rest." He lets out a sigh like he's deflating and sags back against Eliot’s chest.</p>
<p>"Okay," Eliot says, trying to hold his voice steady. "I-- first of all, thank you for telling me." He swallows hard, hugs Quentin tighter, gets an answering squeeze on his wrist. "That was a lot, what I just heard-- no, I can handle it, I'm glad you told me. I'm glad you're not--- carrying that around by yourself, anymore. So you told me the truth, and now I'm going to tell you some other things that are true, okay?"</p>
<p>Quentin hesitates, but nods, so Eliot continues. "Here's what's true," he says. "You made a brave choice that ended up having terrible consequences. You <em>could not know</em> what those consequences were going to be when you made that choice. Your body did everything it had to do to keep you safe, whether that meant enjoying it, or wanting it, or giving in.” He presses his face to the back of Quentin’s head, talks into his hair. “<em>None</em> of that makes you responsible for what happened, for any of it. I wish it hadn't happened, so much, I wish-- that I could have protected you. But I don't blame you for any of it. For doing it in the first place, or for wanting it, or for coming or anything else. And you <em>don’t</em> make me sick. I love you. I <em>love</em> you, Q. That is what's true."</p>
<p>Quentin is shaking, again, just the barest shiver. "I wish I could believe that," he whispers.</p>
<p>"Believe it," Eliot orders. Quentin makes a sharp noise. "Okay, I do know it doesn't work that way. But-- fuck, Q. I’ve been so focused on trying to touch you, this whole time I should have been making sure you knew that <em>none of this was your fault</em>."</p>
<p>“I like you touching me,” Quentin says quietly.</p>
<p>“But that’s the least important thing, here,” Eliot says. “It’s important because you want it, but it’s more important that you know you’re allowed to want things. Whatever you wanted before, no matter why you wanted it, that doesn’t make it bad to want now.”</p>
<p>Quentin lets out another huge sigh. He squeezes Eliot’s wrist and lets go, shifts a little side to side.</p>
<p>“Okay to keep holding you, or no?” Eliot asks, worried, loosening his grip around Quentin’s body.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Quentin says. “But maybe let’s lie down?”</p>
<p>They do, and Eliot carefully pulls Quentin against his chest, face to face, his head tucked safely under Eliot’s chin. He feels wrung out, so he can only imagine how Quentin is feeling.</p>
<p>“Water,” he remembers belatedly, and rolls halfway away to stretch for the bottles he left on the other side of the bed. “Water, and food, and sleep. I don’t usually pull rank, but as the senior boyfriend here, I veto us having sex until we have done all three of those things, maybe more than once.”</p>
<p>“Boyfriend?” Quentin says, accepting the water and draining it in one huge gulp.</p>
<p>Fuck. “Mm, you’re right, we don’t really need labels,” Eliot tries to say casually. They can’t have this conversation. At all, since Eliot’s going to leave, but especially not <em>now</em>, when Quentin just melted down.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Quentin says. “I don’t mind it.”</p>
<p>“So apparently I can hold you, now,” Eliot says, gathering Quentin into his arms. “This wasn’t exactly an ideal way to find that out, but I’m so glad I can.”</p>
<p>“Eliot, are you my boyfriend?”</p>
<p>“I still wish I could touch your hair, but I obviously don’t want to push it--”</p>
<p>“Eliot.”</p>
<p>Fuck. <em>Fuck.</em> “Of course I’m your boyfriend,” Eliot says, kissing Quentin’s forehead. “I sleep over most nights, we cuddle all the time, we’re working on having sex. I love you. Sounds pretty boyfriend-y to me.”</p>
<p>It’s real honesty, if not total honesty. But boyfriends doesn’t mean forever, so he’s not lying, technically. And this way Quentin can say to people he dates in the future, ‘my ex-boyfriend,’ and then tell them all about how Eliot was a total dick and then a literal monster but Quentin’s better off without him, he’s grown so much more than he ever could have if they had stayed together.</p>
<p>“Good,” Quentin says, and relaxes into his arms.</p>
<p>It’s a remarkably normal day, after that. The rope and lube and EMT shears sit untouched on the bedside table, ready to be used another time, maybe. They read and play cards and bicker and order dinner and settle into bed together like nothing even happened that morning.</p>
<p>Sometime in the middle of the night, Eliot wakes up for no real reason. The curtains are open an inch or so, and there’s a streak of moonlight and neon across the bedspread. </p>
<p>He looks at Quentin, open-mouthed and drooling, hair in seven different directions across his face. He thinks about how much Quentin wanted him, earlier, and how completely that want disappeared with the memory of what Eliot’s body did to him. He knows what the shape of the harm is, now, the real harm. The burning guilt and shame in Quentin’s heart, eating at him this whole time, and Eliot never even fucking noticed. </p>
<p>He knows what the shape of the harm is, and he knows he can try his best, but he’ll never truly be able to fix it, not while they’re together. So he can take one last stab at this, but then he has to set Quentin free.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Ch 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To be honest, he'd forgotten all about the Festival of Leaves after the disaster of yesterday. So he's not expecting a bunny to appear on top of his plate of scrambled eggs and scream, "YOU'RE LATE, PRINCESS!" in his face.</p>
<p>"Uh," Quentin says, forkful of breakfast halfway to his mouth.</p>
<p>"Fuck," Eliot says. "Seriously, you couldn't aim better than this?" He moves the bunny to the table and looks sadly at his plate. </p>
<p>"FUCK YOU," the bunny says. Its own feelings, then. Maybe this was one of the ones Margo and Julia pissed off with their monster-related planning. It hops twice down the length of the table and on the third hop, it's gone.</p>
<p>Eliot scrapes the ruined eggs into the trash, and when he sits back down Quentin has divided his eggs into two piles and moved his plate to be equidistant between them. "Was that a Margo message?" he asks.</p>
<p>"Yeah, the Festival of Leaves is starting, and I promised her and Fen I'd be there," Eliot says.</p>
<p>"Festival of Leaves?" Quentin asks, perking right up. "It's happening this year? It's only described in like two sentences in the third book, there aren't a lot of details. I'd love to go."</p>
<p>"Do you think you should, though?" Eliot asks. "Since-- I mean, yesterday didn't exactly go well."</p>
<p>Quentin frowns at him. "I mean, we can try again another time?"</p>
<p>Ah, yes. Eliot's the only one who knows that successfully having sex is the end of the road, not just a goal to move through. Eliot's also the only one who knows about his plan to leave and go hide in Fillory when they reach that point.</p>
<p>"Right," Eliot says, waving a casual hand. "Sorry, coffee's still kicking in." He takes a bite of breakfast. It's good, because he cooked it. They will not speak of Quentin's scrambled eggs from last week. Some traumas are better left in the past.</p>
<p>"If it's already starting, we should head over there." Quentin says. He's up, grabbing his messenger bag and rummaging through it, taking out crumpled receipts and about a million loose pens and putting in his toothbrush and a few pairs of underwear and socks. "The one thing I do know is the first night is a big deal. That's why it doesn't really get much airtime in the books -- the only time the Chatwins went, they came late, and they couldn't, like, participate, or something? And anyway then the Dragon of the North started doing its thing, and they had to go deal with that."</p>
<p>"Mm-hm," Eliot says, determined to finish breakfast calmly and in his own time, not get swept up in Q's enthusiasm or his own pounding anxiety. "Let's hit the liquor store first, get something nice for Margo."</p>
<p>"Perfect," Quentin says. "That's the other thing, there's something about bringing gifts, but I don't know who for, or if there's something traditional." He looks thoughtfully around the living room. "Hey, would you mind if we brought Smaug? To maybe be a gift?"</p>
<p>"The puzzle?" Eliot says, using context clues. "Sure."</p>
<p>Quentin carefully lifts the dragon puzzle into its box and lays it down on its side, putting its missing piece beside it afterwards. Eliot bites down on his tongue intentionally to distract himself from the haunting symbolism of packing up their one tangible shared creation and taking it away.</p>
<p>They get into Brakebills with the alumni key the Dean gave Eliot (possibly as an apology for taking his memories and leaving him vulnerable to a body-hopping demon, possibly because he was too drunk at the time to remember Eliot didn't actually graduate). Eliot's ready to open the clock when Quentin says, "Hey," and Eliot turns to look at him and finds him smirking.</p>
<p>"I, uh, grabbed a couple extra things while you were packing," he says, and pulls back the flap of his bag so Eliot can see the lube, rope, and EMT shears, tucked right next to Quentin's deodorant and a couple granola bars.</p>
<p>Eliot can't come up with a coherent response to that, there are too many emotions snarled together in his throat. He makes himself smirk back at Quentin, eyebrows raised, and silently opens the clock and waves Q through into Fillory.</p>
<p>The snap in the air is immediately apparent. The forest is mostly evergreens, with isolated splotches of reds and oranges where a rare deciduous tree is turning colors -- except for around the palace. Whitespire is wreathed in gold, it looks like every tree in the extensive gardens has exploded with bright yellow leaves, almost shimmering in the sunlight. Eliot lets out a low whistle.</p>
<p>"Festival of Leaves, indeed," he says.</p>
<p>"Let's go," Quentin says, and Eliot can hear the fully delighted grin in his voice even as he walks on ahead.</p>
<p>It turns out to be harder than anticipated to actually <em>get</em> to the palace, because the entire capital city, plus several miles of land outside its walls, has turned into an enormous fairground. Peddlers' wagons and merchants' tents create zig-zagging paths with no clear way through to the center, and every farmer and homeowner and two-bit con artist wants to offer them lodging at exorbitant rates.</p>
<p>"Weary travelers!" one old man hollers from the hayloft of a barn -- just, a straight-up barn. "You must rest your heads here for the festival! Best leaf-catching spot in town, excellent views of the fireworks! Hay's clean and soft!"</p>
<p>"We're good," Quentin calls back, raising a hand in greeting.</p>
<p>"You may be, but your companion looks beat!" the old man yells. "Looks like he hasn't slept in weeks! Why the long face, longshanks? Nothing a good nap in my hay won't cure!"</p>
<p>Quentin looks back at Eliot curiously, but Eliot rolls his eyes and fixes his face and carefully links his arm through Q's.</p>
<p>"I am not sleeping in a hayloft, ever, but especially not when I have an actual royal bedchamber waiting for me."</p>
<p>"You look so cute with straw in your hair, though," Quentin says, grinning. "Like when we re-thatched the roof."</p>
<p>"When <em>I</em> re-thatched the roof, and you and your short-ass arms dicked around for three days," Eliot corrects, earning an offended snort back, and they bicker the rest of the way up to Whitespire.</p>
<p>The castle and all its inhabitants are resplendent in golds, burgundies, burnt oranges. They manage to find Fen in the throne room, surrounded by checklists and nervous-looking servants.</p>
<p>"Eliot!" she says, delighted and a little desperate. "Quentin! You made it!" She leaps up to hug them together, one arm around each of them. "I know you probably want to enjoy the festival, but we could really use some help."</p>
<p>"About fucking time," Margo says, coming around the corner in a full-on dark red ball gown, gorgeous and terrifying. "I was starting to wonder if Q had actually fucked you into a coma, El."</p>
<p>Quentin and Fen go matching shades of red at that; Eliot is pretty sure he doesn't, but it's a close thing. "I did miss you, Bambi," he says, taking her hand and twirling her around so he can see the full effect of the dress. "But you are clearly <em>thriving</em>, so I'm not sure what you need me for."</p>
<p>"Well right now the Festival Choir is having an argument between its human members and its songbird members, and both groups are refusing to go on. You understand theater kids, I need you to talk some sense into them." She takes his hand firmly and starts walking away, then turns back at Fen and Quentin, points at each of them in turn. "Fen, still on decoration duty. Q, help her. Spend some quality time with your-- what's the Fillorian word for people who've fucked the same person? Lorian cousins?"</p>
<p>Fen looks aghast. "Margo, never say that!" she hisses. "It's incredibly offensive!"</p>
<p>"Noted, gonna pull it out next time King Idri's really up my ass." Margo pulls Eliot out of the room. </p>
<p>"Bambi," he starts, but Margo cuts him off.</p>
<p>"I know, I bet you have like a million super emotional things to tell me right now, but El, you can't yet." Her eyes are wild as she whirls to face him, stopping dead in the hallway. "I need all-out party planner extraordinaire Eliot, not tortured lover boy Eliot. Can you do that for me?"</p>
<p>"Of course I can," Eliot says, resting his hands on her shoulders. That is... a huge relief, actually. Party planner Eliot's life is so much simpler than tortured lover Eliot's. Much nicer to be him, on a day when he hasn't had enough breakfast and his two loves are probably swapping war stories about his dick. "Tell me what the beef is with these songbirds."</p>
<p>They get the choir straightened out (with some minor bribery and a couple tiny white lies), settle a dispute between two squash-and-toad tart vendors who are squabbling over the same scrubby patch of land way out on the outskirts of the festival, and consult with the royal fireworks technician. ("We have a royal fireworks technician?" "He does the heavy explosives for the army. Tick says he's mostly stable.") Margo hustles Eliot into a room with the royal tailor, who takes some lightning-fast measurements and puts him into a gorgeous deep brown suit with a golden pocket square.</p>
<p>He doesn't see Quentin again until evening, when they both end up in the royal box, on an outer balcony of the palace, to watch the choral performance. Quentin has been dressed up, too, in a soft white shirt with full sleeves and a burgundy waistcoat that hugs his torso perfectly. Eliot doesn't drool, definitely not.</p>
<p>"There you are!" Quentin says happily. He takes a bite out of the small tart in his hand. "You have to try these, they're so good. It's like, some kind of savory pumpkin pie? Fen bought me one, she knows the best vendor."</p>
<p>"Great," Eliot says, choosing not to intervene. </p>
<p>"It's almost time!" Fen says excitedly, coming up behind them in an off-the-shoulder gold gown. "I've <em>never</em> had this good of a seat, we were always way out in the third ring or so."</p>
<p>"Fen, darling, could you fill us poor children of Earth in on what's actually going to happen here?" Eliot asks.</p>
<p>"Oh!" Fen grins, and drags them both to the edge of the box, pointing out at the groves of golden-leaved trees surrounding the palace. "Every so often, the trees of Whitespire decide to turn colors. At sunset on the first night of autumn, they shoot their leaves up into the air. It's really good luck for the whole kingdom, it means a good harvest. And if you're lucky enough to catch a leaf before it touches the ground," she says, smiling up at Eliot, "it means you'll have someone keeping you nice and warm through the winter."</p>
<p>"Ah," Eliot says, immediately seeing about a dozen ways this can go sideways for him. </p>
<p>"That's the big event, anyway, then the other three days of the festival is mostly just people who caught leaves deciding who to present them to, and buying gifts for those sweethearts, and everyone else eating and drinking and shopping to console ourselves that we didn't get a leaf. There's only so many of them, and they spread across the whole valley. I've never caught one."</p>
<p>"Okay, bitches," Margo says, tearing herself away from some servant who wants something with a vicious glare. "Let's get this show on the road."</p>
<p>The streets below are filled with people, shoulder to shoulder, and every stall has been doing a bustling trade all day. But now, as the last rays of the sun are starting to dip below the hills, and the sky is beginning to deepen to pink and purple, a truly eerie hush falls over the entire city.</p>
<p>Eliot is on the edge of laughing at how ridiculous this all is. Quentin's eyes are bright and excited, though, and he's leaning out over the balcony, looking at the ring of trees as shadow sweeps across the grove. And then Eliot hears it: a deep, pervasive groan of bending wood, sounding like an earthquake. The last sliver of light passes beyond the palace walls, and then--</p>
<p>
  <em>foom</em>
</p>
<p>With astonishing force, the leaves on every golden tree explode upwards, hundreds of feet in the air, then begin a graceful and pirouetting descent downwards. A cool breeze picks them up, scattering the clouds of foliage, dispersing them across the valley.</p>
<p>Far below them, noise has returned, as a huge cheer goes up from the assembled Fillorians, quickly punctuated by shouts of both joy and anger as people jostle for position to try and catch a leaf. On the next balcony down, Eliot watches one servant fully elbow another in the face to keep her from snatching one out of the air.</p>
<p>"Ha!" Quentin says, and Eliot turns to see him holding a broad golden leaf, looking like a kid in a candy store.</p>
<p>"Quentin, oh, you lucky duck!" Fen whines, sounding truly jealous. "First try? How is that fair?"</p>
<p>"Fillory can be a cruel mistress, my love," Eliot says, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. So this was way-this-could-go-sideways number four, Quentin has one of the magic love leaves and Fen doesn't have one. Good times.</p>
<p>"So what am I supposed to do now?" Quentin asks, admiring the leaf from all angles.</p>
<p>"You present it to your sweetheart, and then if they accept, you give them gifts and spend time with them for the rest of the festival." Fen reaches up and covers Eliot's hands with hers, gives one a squeeze. "The week after the Festival of Leaves is always a big one for weddings."</p>
<p>"Right," Quentin says. He's looking at Eliot, now, all puppy dog eyes and soft smile. Eliot can't do this, he can't. He hasn't even had a chance to vent to Margo yet, have her tell him how he's going to get through this with poise and drinking.</p>
<p>But Quentin, mercifully, carefully tucks the leaf into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Can we get more tarts?" he asks Fen.</p>
<p>"After the fireworks," Fen says. "They're the best consolation prize for us unlucky folks."</p>
<p>Eliot could not be more glad to have ear-shattering explosions ringing out directly across from him, blotting out all hope of conversation. The high explosives technician puts on an excellent show, golds and reds and even a couple of blues spiraling across the night sky. Eliot keeps his arms around Fen, smiling when she jumps a little at the loudest booms. This will be good to have, having someone to casually touch like this. And it's nice to have his arms around a body and not worry that every shiver is a sign of disaster. After-Eliot will be okay. He will.</p>
<p>The smoke fades, and the crowd below cheers again, and then the hum of the festival returns. Somewhere far below, music starts, a lively dance on fiddle and flute. Eliot lets go of Fen as Margo comes up beside him, slips an arm around his waist.</p>
<p>"All right," she says. "Now let's have some fucking <em>fun</em>."</p>
<p>It's not exactly what Eliot was hoping to do, but it's better than nothing, so he produces a handful of minibar bottles of tequila out of his pocket and passes them around. "Let's," he says.</p>
<p>Despite not having a single palatable native source of alcohol, the Fillorians do, in fact, know how to throw a party. The streets are full of people in their best outfits, everything from families with grandparents and toddlers to teenagers who think they've found a good hiding place to make out between booths. First stop is the tart vendor, where Eliot watches Quentin's face eagerly as he steps up to order and gets asked if he'd like the extra boiled toad chunks to go on top.</p>
<p>"Um," he says, looking stunned, then shrugs. "No, just the regular ones, please."</p>
<p>"And you're still going to eat it?" Eliot asks as Quentin comes back to join them, mouth already full.</p>
<p>Quentin shrugs again. "Is it really weirder than like, lobster? That’s like a creepy ocean bug. They're really fucking good, El, I swear, here--"</p>
<p>He's smiling with those dimples again, and his cheeks are just starting to flush from the tequila, and he looks incredibly good in burgundy. Eliot takes a bite. It... isn't bad, actually.</p>
<p>Margo wants to find a particular troupe of acrobats, whose pavilion ends up being around the south side of the city. Fen stops at every jewelry stand on the way. Quentin gets distracted by a peddler whose open-sided cart is crammed every-which-way with books like a musty, papery game of jenga. Eliot just wants to watch all of them be <em>happy</em>, such an unfamiliar sight, all of his people being in the same place and delighted at the same time. His stash of tequila dwindles through the evening.</p>
<p>The acrobats have just finished a set -- and turns out "acrobats" is really the least relevant part of the description, because half a dozen extremely toned men wearing extremely tight clothing would be entertaining even without the backflips -- when Quentin swaps spots with Margo to sit down beside Eliot and scoots close, leaning against his side and grabbing his hand. Eliot curls his fingers through Quentin's, watching the tallest acrobat stretch out his hamstrings. He can't turn to look at Quentin. He can't, he wants to kiss him, he wants to do all sorts of tequila- and hot-men-inspired things to him, he still hasn't talked with Bambi, everything is completely out of control.</p>
<p>"Hey," Quentin says in his ear. His voice is low. "Can we go back to the palace? Just us?"</p>
<p>Eliot presses his lips into a smile, still not looking at Quentin. "You sure you don't want to stay for another set?"</p>
<p>"Pretty sure," Quentin says. He's so close to Eliot's ear, his breath tickles. That's why Eliot shivers.</p>
<p>"Whatever you want, darling," Eliot says, and pushes himself to his feet. Margo blows him a kiss as they go.</p>
<p>Quentin is single-minded as they weave their way through the crowds, not veering from the quickest way to the palace gate. He's got a firm grip on Eliot's hand, and Eliot isn't being dragged, exactly, but he's maybe not walking as quickly as Quentin is. </p>
<p>Eliot's room is also Fen's room, so they go to Quentin's instead, a lovely little guest room one floor up. Quentin's bag is there, and his Earth clothes are in a heap on the floor. The moment they're inside, he pivots towards Eliot, catching Eliot's other hand and walking backwards to draw him further into the room.</p>
<p>"Hi," he says, a little breathlessly, stopping when they're standing in front of the bed, tugging Eliot's hands to make him step closer.</p>
<p>"Hi," Eliot says back. Delight is practically radiating off Quentin, Eliot can feel it like static electricity in the air between them.</p>
<p>"I'd really like to have sex with you," Quentin says, and tips his face up to kiss Eliot.</p>
<p>Eliot groans into the kiss. His heart is pounding, maybe not in a good way. He wants this, <em>so</em> badly, but he's maybe a step beyond tipsy and wanting this much is dangerous, when Quentin needs him to be so in control. He's trying to only kiss back as much as Quentin is, has a death grip on Quentin's fingers to keep himself from getting his hands into Quentin's hair. But Quentin is kissing him hard, and hungrily, and Eliot is only a man, he can only be so strong.</p>
<p>"I," Eliot says between kisses, "I should warn you--" Kiss. "You are fucking." Kiss. "Gorgeous." Quentin sucks on his bottom lip, and he shudders. "And I am a little drunk."</p>
<p>"I trust you," Quentin says against his mouth, and Eliot groans again. Quentin pushes firmly on his chest until he sprawls backwards onto the bed, less than gracefully.</p>
<p>"You shouldn't," Eliot says. Real honesty. "You really, really shouldn't." But Quentin is climbing up onto the bed, straddling him, starting to unbutton his own waistcoat. "Wait," Eliot says. "Can I--?" His hands float near Quentin's waist. "Before. You're so gorgeous," he explains, not really explaining anything.</p>
<p>"Yeah," Quentin says. He puts his hands on his own thighs. "Go ahead."</p>
<p>A thrill runs down Eliot's spine. He wraps his hands around Quentin's waist -- God, the things this boy <em>does</em> to him when he dresses well -- and up his sides, over the sleek lines and finely-woven fabric of the waistcoat, before he goes for the buttons again. Quentin watches him closely, the whole time, and Eliot feels again like he's being taken apart and evaluated piece by piece but he doesn't care. Let Quentin see his whole self, he'll have to see it soon anyway.</p>
<p>He gets Quentin's shirt off and presses his hands to his chest, spreading his fingers as wide as they'll go to encompass as much skin as possible. Quentin shifts forward, bends down to kiss him deeply, pinning Eliot's arms between their bodies. He tangles his hands in Eliot's hair and tugs, just a little, and Eliot nearly breaks at just that tiny bit of roughness, when everything has been so sweet and simple between them for months. Quentin's sitting right on Eliot's cock, and as they make out his hips rock against Eliot, so subtly Eliot thinks it must be subconscious, but then Quentin gets his tongue deep in Eliot's mouth right as he slides back and grinds against Eliot and Eliot can't even name the noise he makes.</p>
<p>Quentin smiles against his lips, sits up but holds Eliot's arms gently down against his chest. "I want you," he says softly. Eliot inhales sharply, looking for signs of another meltdown. But Quentin is <em>glowing</em> in the torchlight, still taking Eliot apart piece by piece with his eyes and his <em>hips</em>, fuck, still rocking slightly. "I want you, and that's okay."</p>
<p>"Fuck yes it's okay," Eliot says. "You get whatever you want, I'll give you anything."</p>
<p>Quentin lunges down to kiss him more. "Get undressed for me, I want to see you," he says into Eliot's mouth.</p>
<p>Eliot manages not to bodily shove Quentin off of him in his scramble to comply, but only just. Quentin laughs as he rolls to the side, laughs again as Eliot fumbles with too many buttons. Eliot makes himself take a few deep breaths, focus on getting control of his fine motor function. He's not <em>that</em> drunk, low tolerance or no. It's not the tequila making his fingers tangle together and his legs shake. It's the way Quentin's looking at him, lips barely parted, sliding his own pants off as Eliot does and he's hard, beautiful, already leaking a bit. It's the echoes of deep kisses, the hum from deep in Quentin's chest as Eliot stretches out on the bed next to him.</p>
<p>"You better tie me up," Eliot says. "Or this, I have to touch you, I, you are <em>so fucking gorgeous</em>." He's clutching the quilt so hard his fingers ache, trying to keep himself from sliding a hand up Quentin's thigh, around over the soft curve of his ass, <em>fuck</em>.</p>
<p>"I don't think I need to," Quentin says, and he grabs Eliot's wrist and puts his hand <em>exactly</em> where Eliot was thinking about putting it, fucking brilliant boy. "You're very-- yourself, right now. I'm doing okay."</p>
<p>Eliot doesn't feel like himself, he feels crazed, overwhelmed. He wants to sink his teeth into Quentin's inner thighs, lick him open until he's crying for more stimulation, ease into him so slowly because by the time he bottoms out inside that tight little ass he's going to have come already probably. But he has a shred of common sense left, kept alive by his aching need for Quentin to love every second of this without any reservations. So instead he scoots closer, until they're pressed together chest to chest, legs tangled, and gets a hand around both of them at once.</p>
<p>Quentin cries out, eyes closing and head falling back, which gives Eliot the opportunity to kiss under his jaw as he doesn't even stroke, at first, just holds their cocks together, trying not to lose it already. He only has a moment to ready himself before Quentin starts making needy little sounds and squirming, trying to thrust into his hand, and Eliot says "<em>Fuck, Q,</em>" and gets his hand moving. Quentin throws an arm over Eliot's neck, drags him in to keep making those noises into his mouth, his tongue dragging across Eliot's lips each time. Eliot's hand is slick, no lube necessary, all he had to do was run his thumb over the heads of their cocks and drink in Quentin's delicious scream to collect enough precome to make things slippery and fucking <em>so good</em>. It can't last, it can't. Eliot's hips are jerking with every slide of his fingers and the head of Quentin's dick is pressed just under his own, rock hard in that oh-yes-here-it-comes way and Quentin's fingers are in his hair again, holding on hard, and Eliot feels something give and comes fucking all over the place, explosively, sobbing into Quentin's kisses.</p>
<p>"Q, I want, please," he whispers, and Quentin tucks his head under Eliot's chin and makes a noise that Eliot understands wholeheartedly, like he's shocked how good this is, and is gone as well.</p>
<p>Eliot doesn't stop stroking right away, wishing so hard that they could just, go again, do this forever, but his dick is softening and Quentin just made a little oversensitive noise deep in his throat so he stops for both of their sakes. He grabs Quentin around the waist and hugs him close. There was already come <em>everywhere</em>, now there's come on Quentin's back and possibly on Eliot's chin, he thinks he shot that far, and if so it's smearing onto Quentin's chin too as they kiss. Eliot's never been hugely into gratuitously messy sex but he could do this forever, he will fucking build a ten-step skincare routine out of Quentin's come if they get to do this every night.</p>
<p>It isn't until Quentin settles his face into the crook of Eliot's neck, breathing out a contented sigh over his sticky skin, that Eliot remembers: oh right. They don't.</p>
<p>"I'm so fucking stupid," Quentin says into Eliot's neck, laughing a bit. Eliot just makes a confused noise at him. "<em>You</em> are you. It wasn't like you <em>at all</em>, it was never like that." He sighs again. "It was always just sex to have sex, there was never anything-- <em>behind</em> it. It wanted to get off. You want <em>me</em>."</p>
<p>Oh, Eliot does. Eliot has never wanted anything more. Even when he was deep in the throes of way too much drinking and had to stop for a few days to have any chance of making it through exams, he didn't feel as strongly about getting that next sip of alcohol as he does now about taking this man into his heart and giving him a place to live there. "You're not stupid," he says. "I won't let you say that, Q. You went through a whole fucking lot, your body trying to protect you is the opposite of stupid."</p>
<p>"I know, I just, this is so <em>different</em>," Quentin says again. "I said I wanted it, then-- and I did, during, but I <em>never</em> felt like this after."</p>
<p>Eliot shouldn't ask. He does it anyway. "Like what?"</p>
<p>"Like I did something right, for once," Quentin says.</p>
<p>"Oh, Q." Eliot's face can't decide whether to smile or melt into tears. Fortunately Q is still face-planted into his neck, so he can't see either way. "You did so good, darling, you did everything right. <em>Very</em> right," he finishes on a long exhale.</p>
<p>"We're really sticky," Quentin observes. "Which, I don't care that much, but there aren't actually showers here, so."</p>
<p>"Yeah, better to clean up before we're superglued together." Eliot reluctantly peels his arm off of Quentin, and Quentin peels his face off of Eliot's shoulder, and they look at the wreck of the quilt together for a moment before Eliot shakes his head and goes to the washbasin. The water in the pitcher is <em>cold</em>, fuck, so he warms it with a quick tut and finishes wiping himself down as Quentin is doing something in the background, peeling the quilt off the bed and rummaging around near his clothes.</p>
<p>Eliot returns to the newly stripped bed, stretches himself contentedly on the cool, clean sheets. He watches Quentin at the washbasin, admiring the view. He feels much more sober than he did when they started this, like the orgasm managed to chip just enough off his enormous need to give him a moment where he doesn't have to feel tingly and desperate for Quentin's touch.</p>
<p>When Quentin turns around, he feels even more sober, though not necessarily in a good way. Because Quentin's got that fucking golden leaf in his hand, twirling it by the stem. He flops down on the bed beside Eliot, rolling onto his side and going up on one elbow like fucking Burt Reynolds on a bearskin rug.</p>
<p>"Eliot Waugh," he says, "Will you keep me warm through the winter?"</p>
<p>Eliot looks at him, his precious open eyes and those dimples doing their fucking thing again. He leans forward and kisses Quentin, gently, as he plucks the leaf out of Quentin's hand.</p>
<p>"I'm yours," he says. It's as close as he can get to the whole truth without breaking his own heart.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Eliot tries to find time to talk to Margo, he really does. But the next morning is for quick breakfast and then planning their amusements for the day, as the festival winds onward. Midday is for dealing with whatever snafu Tick has discovered -- or cooked up, Margo mutters darkly, but Eliot thinks the little man is too obviously stressed to devote any of his few frazzled brain cells to treachery. Afternoon is for taking in the various festival exhibits and shopping with Fen, although every half an hour she makes Eliot go down a different aisle of stalls so she can talk Quentin through buying him an appropriate festival sweetheart gift. Evening is for a sumptuous dinner and dancing with Margo in the big public music pavilions. She asks him how he knows all the steps to all the dances, and he shrugs, instead of telling her about whirling Arielle around the town square at many a local festival in his other lifetime, Quentin "I can't dance and you can't make me" Coldwater cheering them on from the sidelines.</p>
<p>Night time, predictably, is when it all gets complicated. That's when Fen pulls him aside, when the air is chilled and the stars are out, and they drift back towards the palace, arm in arm.</p>
<p>"I do feel a bit strange taking you away from your festival sweetheart," she says as they wander down the palace hallway to their bedroom. "But Quentin said it was fine as long as he could have you later in the night."</p>
<p>"You two are planning out my schedule, now?" Eliot says fondly. "Do I get any say in the matter?"</p>
<p>"Mmmm," Fen says, pretending to consider. "Not much, really. Would you like some?"</p>
<p>Eliot actually considers. "No, this is fine. You're just going to have to be careful not to wear me out, between the both of you. I refuse to miss the swordsmanship demonstrations tomorrow because I'm exhausted."</p>
<p>"We'll take good care of you," Fen assures him.</p>
<p>Eliot squeezes her hand, silently thankful to have something taken out of his control, because he's not looking forward to the decisions he'll have to make very, very soon. Too soon. So he spends a couple of hours taking good care of her, too, face buried between her thighs until she stops using his hair to pull him closer and starts using it to push him away, too much, Eliot that's three times, let me breathe! She's too happily boneless to do anything but curl around him and doze off, although she offers him a handjob through a huge yawn, and Eliot kisses her forehead and says before he really thinks about it that he'll let Quentin field that one. She doesn't seem to mind, though, just nods sleepily.</p>
<p>The knock on the door comes a while later, as Eliot is on the verge of getting sleepy himself, reading a book he found in Fen's nightstand that turns out to be a so-terrible-it's-kind-of-fascinating romance novel. He tosses it aside, no longer caring that Evil Earl Greystoke is about to rip open Innocent Ingenue Tala's bodice for the second time in ten pages. </p>
<p>Quentin is sweaty. Margo must have talked him into dancing after all. She's much more intimidating than Eliot. "Hi," he says, grinning up at Eliot and drawing him out of the room, down the hall. "My turn."</p>
<p>Quentin shoves him backwards onto his bed, again, when they reach it. Eliot could get used to being manhandled like this. He's generally considered himself a switch, in all the various senses of that word, though he tends towards topping, especially with a partner who melts as readily and happily into submission as Quentin. But it's not at all bad, having Quentin climbing on top of him with a predatory gleam in his eye. He won't have time to get used to it, but he could.</p>
<p>Quentin kisses him, letting Eliot arch up into him so their chests are pressed together, then pulls back for a moment. "You taste different," he says, then his eyes widen. "El, did you eat her out?"</p>
<p>"Sorry," Eliot says, horrified that Quentin can tell so easily. "Let me go brush my teeth again and wash my face, it’ll just be a moment.”</p>
<p>"No, it's-- fine, actually," Quentin says slowly. His cheeks have a little more color in them. "It's kind of." He leans down and kisses Eliot, deep and slow. "Kind of hot," he murmurs against Eliot's lips.</p>
<p>He sits bolt upright, then. "As long as she'd be okay with it, though. This is-- this is weird, right? I made it weird."</p>
<p>"You didn't make it weird," Eliot says, putting careful hands on Quentin's shoulders and drawing him back down. "It's what we have. Fen doesn't mind you knowing what we do."</p>
<p>"Good," Quentin says. He kisses the corner of Eliot's mouth. "Because it <em>is</em> pretty hot, thinking about you--" he licks across Eliot's lips. "I didn't know you could. Or, would."</p>
<p>"I'm a gentleman," Eliot says, trying to catch Quentin's tongue in a sloppy kiss and being foiled by Quentin quickly moving aside, grinning. "If I'm going to show a girl a good time, I'm going to show her a <em>good time</em>."</p>
<p>"How'd you learn that?" Quentin asks. He kisses the side of Eliot's neck, just under his ear, tongues at his earlobe. "Margo?"</p>
<p>"Among others." Eliot gets his hands up under the back of Quentin's shirt. "Every once in a while a change of pace is nice, so I've dabbled. Margo just helped me perfect my technique."</p>
<p>"Helped you? Or wouldn’t let you up until you got it right?" Quentin's got Eliot's shirt, a lace-up number that's very Ren Faire Chic, open all the way down his front. Eliot squirms like-- well, like Quentin, when he drags a thumb over Eliot's nipple.</p>
<p>"She does have a very direct teaching style. And now this is getting a little weird to talk about," Eliot adds. "I <em>am</em> a gentleman, I don't kiss and tell."</p>
<p>"Sorry," Quentin says. "I just." He kisses Eliot full-on, insistent and hard and Eliot moans into his mouth. "I like learning about you. I feel like we never, you're more open, now. Than other times." He kisses him again and sits up just enough that Eliot can see him grin. "Plus I just like thinking about what your mouth can do."</p>
<p>Eliot licks his own lips at that, not even meaning it to be sexy, but Quentin's breath hitches. "I can," he says, already less coherent than is helpful. "If you want. I'd love to."</p>
<p>Quentin hesitates, for a long moment. His face goes from flushed happy to flushed anxious. Eliot waits it out, praying he'll bounce back. "I don't think so," he says. "Like, I'd love it but. That was, it happened a lot. I'm not sure I'm ready."</p>
<p>"Anything you want, love," Eliot says. "You have the reins. Just tell me what you do want."</p>
<p>Quentin's face relaxes back into happiness. "Hm," he says, grinding down a little, and it's Eliot's turn to have his breath hitch. "I think-- I'd like to try and fuck you? If you're up for it?"</p>
<p>"More than," Eliot breathes, and when Quentin disappears off the bed he gets himself naked in record time. He's hard and shivering, exceedingly tempted to touch himself but wanting to give Quentin the choice about that, for safety reasons and also to lean into the bottoming thing they're working with tonight.</p>
<p>Quentin returns with lube and no clothes, and Eliot drinks in the sight of him. He drapes himself over Eliot for more kisses, lazy making out transitioning into hungry making out when Eliot curves his spine enough to bring their cocks sliding against each other. They rock together for a long moment, Eliot sucking Quentin's bottom lip dark red while they do, before Quentin breaks away with a cut-off noise. </p>
<p>"We cannot keep doing that if you want me to fuck you," he says, breathless but somehow still matter of fact.</p>
<p>"Then we won't," Eliot says, raising his hands in acquiescence.</p>
<p>"How-- any preferences?" Quentin asks, shifting off of Eliot and sitting back on his heels. "Me on top, you?"</p>
<p>"Truthfully? Whichever way gets your dick inside me the fastest," Eliot says. </p>
<p>Quentin makes another cut-off noise, and Eliot can see his cock jump a little. "Knees up, then," he says, and uncaps the lube.</p>
<p>Eliot did this to himself, the other day back on Earth when he'd been anticipating getting fucked, before everything broke. It had been obvious from how his body resisted at first that it was a never-did thing, but he'd been able to work himself open slowly and carefully, and by the time he was done with himself it had felt <em>excellent</em>. And now, with Quentin cross legged in front of him, using careful fingers and such a better angle than he can manage on his own, long arms or no, it gets to the point of <em>excellent</em> very, very, quickly. He can't stop watching Quentin watching his own fingers sink into Eliot's ass, mesmerized, eyes dark and mouth just a little open. He can't stop, but he has to, he makes himself, because his dick is twitching with every press of slick fingers inside him and he wants to last longer tonight than he did last night.</p>
<p>"Q," he says, finally, the single syllable starting out breathy and rising into an all-out moan by the time he finishes it, with three of Quentin's fingers buried inside him.</p>
<p>"El," Quentin says, almost a whisper. He clears his throat. "El. I--"</p>
<p>"Fuck me, fuck me, <em>now</em>," Eliot interrupts, sitting up and grabbing Quentin's free wrist, trying to pull him forward.</p>
<p>Quentin laughs and climbs over him, pushing Eliot's knees wide. "Dunno how long this is going to last," he says as he lines up his cock, and Eliot barely keeps himself from shoving his hips forward to try and impale himself on it, hard blunt heat brushing where he's already so sensitive.</p>
<p>Quentin eases himself in and the world contracts, for Eliot, down to the slip-stretch of Quentin inside him and the <em>look</em> on Quentin's face, breathtaking pleasure mixed with determination to get this right. He understands why this is a never-did thing, now, because he forgot what it's actually like to have someone inside you. He thought Quentin was picking him apart before, staring straight into the terrible depths of his soul, but that was barely scratching the surface. Like this, Quentin can see him as he truly is, cracked open and aching both physically and emotionally, desperate for Quentin to fill in the gaps Eliot never knew he had. The Monster never would have done this, if it was just in it for sex.</p>
<p>Although it's certainly not a bad way to do that, either, as Quentin shudders and rolls his hips, sliding just a little out of Eliot and then deeper than before. He works himself in like that, little curving strokes, until Eliot is contemplating if coming untouched is a thing that really happens because it might just happen to him, in a moment.</p>
<p>"Would you fuck me already, like really fuck me," he croaks, his whole body tensed with the effort of keeping his shit together enough to form real words. "Q, please, <em>please</em>, <em>fuck</em>--"</p>
<p>"Are you okay, though?" Quentin asks, a real note of concern in his voice on top of the slight desperation.</p>
<p>"I won't be if you don't <em>fuck me</em>," Eliot says, actually yelling by the end of the sentence, hm, wonder which servants are still awake to hear them? That could not matter less a moment later, though, when Quentin <em>finally</em> braces his hands outside Eliot's shoulders and slides out and in, testing, then again, harder, like he means it.</p>
<p>"Yes," he says, low, so low it's barely a word. "El, <em>yes</em>, fucking Christ you feel so good--"</p>
<p>Eliot is beyond words, almost to the point of needing to close his eyes to keep himself from overloading on sensation, but if he does that then <em>every</em> nerve in his body will be focused on his ass, instead of just 99% of them, and that's going to finish things fast. And also then he won't be able to see Quentin's face, hair starting to stick to his forehead with sweat as he thrusts, red faced and mouth working like he always gets when he's close. Eliot is so privileged to know that. He's so privileged to have this sweet boy pounding into him, taking him apart so exquisitely while he himself unravels. </p>
<p>"El," Quentin says again, broken. "<em>Eliot.</em>"</p>
<p>"Yes, fuck, come in me, I <em>want you,</em>" Eliot babbles, and snaps his hips up to meet Quentin's and almost shrieks when Quentin pushes far, far into him and comes, pulsing hard in Eliot's ass. The second he feels it, Eliot lets himself grab his own cock and it's maybe half a second until he's pulsing around Quentin too, making him cry out, a wild feedback loop of intense orgasms.</p>
<p>"Eliot," Quentin pants into Eliot's ear, collapsed over him, breathing like he just ran a marathon. "That was-- fucking <em>amazing</em>."</p>
<p>"Good," Eliot says, trying for a little bit of Before-Eliot bravado even though not a single muscle in his body is functioning correctly. "I try my best."</p>
<p>"Nn," Quentin says. His cock is slipping out of Eliot as Eliot's legs relax down onto the bed, changing the angle, and Eliot can feel the gradual slide of lube and come out of him. Again with the <em>messiness</em>, and again he doesn't care. Quentin can fill him up like a fucking water balloon if that's what he wants. </p>
<p>"The servants are going to fucking hate us if we get any more bedspreads dirty," Eliot mutters, trying to avoid getting a mouthful of Quentin's hair. </p>
<p>"What are servants even for, then," Quentin says. Eliot laughs under him and circles his waist with careful arms, feeling his heartbeat slow against his chest. Quentin makes a small, contented noise to himself, and reaches back, contorts his arm until he can wrangle Eliot's wrist and pull it up to--</p>
<p>the back of his head, the nape of his neck. "You sure?" Eliot breathes. This has been a major, major no-go. He was convinced he'd never get to do it again, especially given his After-Eliot plans. </p>
<p>"Sure," Quentin says, and Eliot slips his fingers through his hair, cradling the base of his skull. It feels so incredibly <em>right</em>, like the last piece of a puzzle. Eliot smiles to himself, thinking about their enchanted wooden dragon. If they were a magic puzzle, they would definitely fuck when the enchantment activated. Relentlessly, until they either used up all the ambient in the air or sanded their little wooden dicks down to nothing on each other's bodies.</p>
<p>There's some kind of commotion outside the window, and Quentin rolls off him with a groan to look. "Fireworks," he reports back. "The midnight ones. Welcome to festival day three!"</p>
<p>Eliot's stomach flips unpleasantly. Day three of four. Where has the <em>time</em> gone? Was it just a few weeks ago that he assumed he'd be able to do this for months, years? "You never gave me my day two sweetheart present," he says. "Fen will be so disappointed that all her dedicated coaching was for nothing."</p>
<p>"Oh, shit," Quentin says, and crawls off the bed to find his discarded pants. "I knew there was something."</p>
<p>Eliot gets rid of the quilt and arranges himself majestically on the pillows, so Quentin smiles at him when he turns back around. "I did wonder if your dick was my day two present," he drawls, and Quentin rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>"I thought about trying to pull that off," he says. "But Fen insisted I actually get you something." He props himself up beside Eliot and hands him a tiny leather bag.</p>
<p>The trinket inside is a delicate gold leaf, the same shape as the one Quentin caught last night and presented to Eliot. Its stem extends into a narrow golden pin several inches long.</p>
<p>"Technically they're used to hold a shirt closed, usually, here," Quentin says. "But I thought it would work as a tie pin thing too, when you're wearing Earth clothes."</p>
<p>"It should," Eliot says, focusing on the sartorial options here so he doesn't burst into tears on the spot. "This is beautiful, Q. Thank you."</p>
<p>"Fen says the most traditional gifts have the leaves on them," Quentin says. "Her mom had a necklace that she got from a childhood festival sweetheart and wore for years, apparently. It's not like a weird thing, like wearing your ex's ring or something, it's just a mark of luck and love."</p>
<p>Luck and love: two things Eliot has far, far more of than he can possibly deserve. He puts the pin carefully back in the bag and kisses Q, slow to show he means it, relishing the slide of Quentin's hair through his fingers. </p>
<p>The kiss ends when Quentin yawns into his mouth, and Eliot laughs and kisses his forehead. "We had a big day," he says. "And we're going to do it all over again tomorrow. Let's get some rest."</p>
<p>"So uh, when you say <em>all</em> over again," Quentin says, as they finish cleaning themselves up and settle under the sheets in Q-as-big-spoon position. "Do you think..."</p>
<p>"I'll have to see if I'm sore, but I'd certainly like for you to fuck me again," Eliot finishes. Quentin kisses the back of his neck and snuggles down around him. And again, and again, and again, Eliot thinks. How many days can he steal of this? Not enough. It can't be enough for him. But it will be the right amount to protect Quentin, and that's what matters.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Ch 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Third verse, same as the first: the swordsmanship demonstrations are magnificent. Lots of buff shirtless guys in billowing pants, very sexy-pirate. Quentin presents him with a black silk scarf embroidered with a pattern of golden leaves. Dinner is almost too sumptuous. Eliot's stash of tequila has run out, and his emergency backup mini bottles of cake-flavored vodka are all gone because Fen discovered she loves the stuff. Eliot is unsurprised by this development. He breaks into the larger bottle of actually quite nice mezcal he invested in, pouring one for Margo and one for himself. It barely even burns going down.</p>
<p>"El, you're a fucking hero," Margo says, sipping her drink. "Have you thought about how you're gonna share custody between here and Earth? Because mama Bambi will take you whenever she can get you."</p>
<p>"Speaking of that, actually," Eliot says, lowering his voice. "I was hoping to talk to you."</p>
<p>"Damn, is the dick that good?" Margo says. "I gotta try that boy again, if he's gonna keep you homebound like this. You can show me what all the fuss is about." She takes another sip. She had some of Eliot's-now-Fen's cake vodka, earlier, and it's showing. Months in this no-decent-liquor hellhole hasn't done her tolerance any favors either.</p>
<p>"First of all," Eliot says, surprised by the subtle spark of protectiveness in his chest, along with a spark of arousal he was expecting, "Only if he wants to."</p>
<p>"Oh, <em>he'll want to</em>."</p>
<p>"And second-- no, not second." Eliot shakes his head. "Scratch that first of all, actually, because--"</p>
<p>"Eliooooooot!" Fen collapses backwards across his lap trust-fall style, nearly hitting her head on the arm of his chair. "Isn't it dancing time yet? I want to dance with you!"</p>
<p>"You are in no shape to dance, my love," Eliot says, petting her hair. "Let's get you up to bed early tonight. Come on, up." He leaves his mezcal with Margo and ushers Fen down the hall.</p>
<p>"Can you come spend the night with me tonight?" she asks him as she's stripping out of her dress, almost before he has a chance to close the door. "To sleep? I want to wake up with you, Quentin's going to get you all the time on Earth but you're here with me now."</p>
<p>Eliot kisses her on the forehead as she climbs into bed. "I'll be here more than you think," he says, "Don't you worry."</p>
<p>"Good," she says, yawning hugely. "Because I want that dick."</p>
<p>"You have to stop letting Margo teach you these phrases," Eliot says. "It's ruining your quaint charm." She's already asleep.</p>
<p>Margo is gone from the dinner table, the remains of the meal cleared away, but Quentin is still there. Exactly the opposite of what Eliot was hoping for. Quentin's eyes light up when Eliot settles down next to him, peering over his shoulder to see what he's reading.</p>
<p>"Festival Tales," Quentin says, handing over the pamphlet. "Basically a gossip magazine. Extremely trashy, I figured you'd want a copy."</p>
<p>"You know me too well," Eliot says, tucking the paper into his pocket. "What's your evening plan? Dancing? I think there's a talking animal open mic night thing at the northern pavilion."</p>
<p>"That sounds like actual hell," Quentin says. "I was thinking, maybe we don't go out tonight? Maybe it's just a sweetheart's night in?" His face is so open and innocent, an interesting contrast to the underlying message of his words ("let's just fuck all evening"). </p>
<p>Eliot wants to take him up on it. Eliot shouldn't take him up on it, he should find Margo and make her sit down and listen to him for thirty seconds in a row, and then he’ll understand better what he has to do. But Eliot will have plenty of chances to do that, when he's After-Eliot. Quentin is in front of him, now. Quentin is asking him to go have sex, now. They have so little time left. Eliot stands and offers Quentin his arm.</p>
<p>Some time later, lying on rumpled, sweaty sheets (they remembered to take the quilt off first, finally), Eliot trails one finger lazily down the back of Quentin's body, shoulder to spine to the swoop of his lower back and over his ass. His arm can't quite reach any farther, so he trails off when he gets to the back of Quentin's thigh, and Quentin shivers a little under his hand.</p>
<p>"Cold, love?" he asks.</p>
<p>"No," Quentin says, brushing his hair out of his face and resting his chin back on his folded hands again. "I just-- you touching me, like that. It's." He shrugs.</p>
<p>Fuck. "I'm sorry, I won't anymore," Eliot says. "I told you you shouldn't trust me to keep my hands to myself, Q. Fuck, sorry, that's making it sound like your fault. Fuck." He's spiraling out of control. Is this how this ends? Is now the moment to say something?</p>
<p>But: "No," Quentin says thoughtfully. "That's not-- quite what I meant. Like, that's there, a little. But." He shuts his eyes for a moment, opens them again. "The Monster, it only touched me for sex or for cuddling, and then it was all focused on what it wanted. It never just touched me because I liked it, or it felt anything for me. It didn't <em>love</em> me." He looks right at Eliot. "I can enjoy you touching me as long as I remind myself that you touch me because you love me, and that's different."</p>
<p>Eliot doesn't know where his heart is, it's in some strange doubled dimension where it can be both in his throat and the pit of his stomach at the same time. "Well," he says finally. "I should touch you a lot more, then, since I'm touching you because I love you. I love you more than just a touch here and there."</p>
<p>Quentin smiles. "Yeah?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Eliot echoes. "Although I don't think you want me just rolling over and laying spread-eagled on top of you right now, which would be the closest I could get to the right amount of touching."</p>
<p>"Yeah, no, no thank you," Quentin says. He rolls towards Eliot, ends up resting his head on his chest, his body just slightly overlapped with Eliot's. "Wouldn't mind a massage, though," he says hopefully.</p>
<p>Eliot looks at his dear, upside down face. "What, are your poor legs all sore from fucking me through the mattress?"</p>
<p>"Maybe." Quentin raises one leg towards the ceiling, tries to stretch his arms to catch it behind the knee, just barely misses. "Oof."</p>
<p>"All right, princess, move over," Eliot says.</p>
<p>Quentin rolls back to his stomach, chin on his folded arms again. Eliot shifts position, surveys the stretch of soft skin before him.</p>
<p>"I'll start with your legs," he says, and slowly but firmly wraps his fingers around one calf, thumb digging into the center of the muscle. Quentin makes an ow-but-good-ow noise and relaxes down into the mattress.</p>
<p>Quentin's body is-- it never ceases to amaze Eliot, how something can seem so unassuming as a whole and yet be so exquisite in every single detail. Quentin's calves are round and well-muscled, dusted evenly with light-brown hair. His thighs, as Eliot works his way up to them, are strong under silky-soft skin. There's a stray freckle on the back of the left one. Eliot digs his knuckles into a knot just below Quentin's ass and feels air whoosh out of Quentin's lungs.</p>
<p>"Still good?" he asks. "Too hard?"</p>
<p>"Good, right amount of hard," Quentin says, a little strangled. "Ow, but. Yeah."</p>
<p>"You worked so hard for me," Eliot says, careful to keep any seductive notes out of his voice. "I'll touch you exactly how you want, whenever you want, when we're together, you just have to ask. I love you and I want you to <em>know</em> it every single time I touch you." He digs into another tight spot, his fingers wrapping around the sides of Quentin's thigh to give his thumbs leverage.</p>
<p>"I know," Quentin says, muffled by pillows.</p>
<p>"Good. Okay if I sit on you to reach your back?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, I think so."</p>
<p>"Tell me if no," Eliot says, and moves into position, settling down on the backs of Quentin's thighs. Quentin's torso is a compact mass of muscle, not particularly ripped or anything but solid, covered in gorgeous flawless skin, the black swirls of his tattoo curving down his spine. Eliot works on his delts, his triceps. Quentin groans, every once in a while, when he hits a particularly sensitive spot, and Eliot eases off and takes his time, combining pressure and motion to ease the tension out of Quentin's muscles. </p>
<p>"I love you, El," Quentin mutters as Eliot moves up to massage his shoulders, sounding blissed-out. </p>
<p>"I love you," Eliot says. He's got a lump in his throat, tears welling up. "I love you. I love you." He can't stop saying it. This is too much honesty, it's shattering him. He's just giving a <em>massage</em>, for fuck's sake. He presses a kiss to the back of Quentin's head, blinking fiercely.</p>
<p>Quentin's fully relaxed, now, loose and pliable under Eliot's fingers. Eliot smooths his hands over the expanse of his back, his shoulders. He would do this till his hands were numb, if Quentin wanted. He would do anything. Finally he has to tear himself away, curling down to kiss Quentin's shoulder.</p>
<p>"You didn't get my ass," Quentin mumbles.</p>
<p>Eliot hesitates. "I can if you want," he says. "I wasn't sure."</p>
<p>"I do want, please."</p>
<p>Eliot slides back over him, runs his hands further down, applying more pressure as he goes. Speaking of exquisite details, he's never going to get over how fucking nice Quentin's ass is, tight and round. It's going to haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, his next quest will be to find anyone else in the multiverse whose ass he loves so much. He bites his tongue, literally, to keep from making comments that are going to be way too sexual for the moment they're in. This is about love, not sex. And thinking about how much he'd <em>love</em> to get inside Quentin doesn't count.</p>
<p>Quentin sighs, deep and full-bodied, and then sighs again, and-- Eliot's libido is making him imagine things, because he'd swear Quentin is pushing back into his grip, shifting his hips against the mattress, like...</p>
<p>"Q?" he says carefully.</p>
<p>"Feels good, El," Quentin says, breathy and hushed. "So good."</p>
<p>Fuck this man and his unbelievable ability to turn Eliot on. "Yeah?" Eliot leans forward, kisses Quentin's shoulder blade. "You getting hard again?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Quentin breathes, and he definitely shoves his hips back into Eliot's hands, thighs flexing under Eliot's legs. </p>
<p>"What do you want?" Eliot asks, barely a whisper. Quentin groan-sighs, bone-deep and needy.</p>
<p>"Your fingers," he says, and Eliot's brain and heart both skip a beat, blood rushing away from them. "In me. Please."</p>
<p>"Okay," Eliot breathes. "Okay, okay--" he finds the lube with shaking hands, rubs some between his fingers to warm it. "You're sure," he can't help asking one more time. He'd been so sure the Monster had taken this from him for good.</p>
<p>Quentin answers his question with a question: "Why do you touch me?"</p>
<p>Eliot is stunned, for a moment. "Huh?"</p>
<p>"Why do you touch me, Eliot?" Quentin prompts.</p>
<p>"Because I love you," Eliot whispers, feeling the words echo through every nerve and bone in his being. He slides his hands over Quentin's ass, leaving a shining trail of lube across it, and slips his fingers down and in.</p>
<p>The noise Quentin makes when Eliot brushes his asshole is just, <em>beyond</em> anything Eliot has heard, ever. The only thing he can compare it to is his own wave of <em>want, want, please, yes</em> that's consuming his soul. He brushes the tip of his finger across Quentin's hole again, circles around, teasing gently. He uses his other hand to pull Quentin's ass cheeks apart so he can see at least a little bit what he's doing. Quentin is just constantly making noise, now, a hum low in his voice that builds in intensity when Eliot presses more firmly, almost slipping inside him, then pulls out again for another circle, spreading more lube until Quentin is slick.</p>
<p>"Eliot, stop <em>teasing</em>," Quentin groans. Eliot swallows hard and pushes forward.</p>
<p>One finger slides in easily, Quentin is relaxed and ready for it, so Eliot slides in a second and is rewarded with a cry that makes his heart twist in his chest. Quentin’s back arches, his hips coming up off the bed for a moment to rock up onto Eliot's hand, and Eliot can just see the drag of his cock against the sheets. He licks his lips involuntarily. What he wouldn't give to flip Q over, swallow him down as he fucks him slow on his fingers, make him make more incredible noises and then make no noise at all and then one last big noise, wake up half the castle. Eliot could do it. He'd love to do it. But this is so good too, just leisurely fingering Quentin, deep as his fingers will reach and curving slightly to slip-slide against Q's prostate. This is what Quentin wants. He touches Quentin because he loves him. He touches Quentin because he loves him.</p>
<p>"Still good?" he checks, as much to disrupt his own train of thought as anything.</p>
<p>Quentin makes a wordless noise and nods vigorously into the pillow, and Eliot chuckles. He's hard, obviously (<em>obviously</em>) and his cock is untouched against his thigh, brushing the back of Quentin's leg just above his knee. Amazingly, it's barely a distraction, Eliot is so absorbed in watching every twitch and flex of Quentin's body. But Quentin must be able to feel it, because he lifts his head and says, "El," in a desperate whine.</p>
<p>Eliot stops. "What is it, love?"</p>
<p>Quentin whines again, sounding like he's being torn in two. "I want," he gasps. "Don't fuck me, but just like. Slide? Oh, fuck-- slide your cock against me, please."</p>
<p>Eliot full-body twitches, that's probably the hottest thing that's ever been said in any timeline that exists. "God yes," he says. He adds some lube, not much, Quentin's cheeks are already shiny and wet, and shifts himself forward. It's weird, lining himself up to <em>not</em> press inside Quentin, but he finds the right angle and slips wet-hot between Quentin's ass cheeks, the length of his cock dragging across Quentin's hole and up onto the small of his back. "Like that?"</p>
<p>"More, uh, down," Quentin says, and as Eliot repositions Quentin crosses his ankles, bringing his legs closer together. Eliot sinks into the squeeze of his thighs, tight and soft, his cock slipping along the sensitive skin behind Quentin's balls, eventually nudging between the bed and the underside of Quentin’s cock. "<em>Yes,</em>" Quentin groans. His hips jerk as he pushes back into Eliot, pushes forward into the bed, trying to get all the sensations he wants at once.</p>
<p>Eliot is gritting his teeth in an effort to hold himself back from the edge. He takes a second to get his knees at a better angle (Quentin makes a pleading noise, he shushes him, one moment, love) and plants his palms on either side of Quentin's head, hovering his body above Quentin's back. This lets him fuck into Quentin's thighs deeper, pressing his hips to Quentin's ass, and gives him great access to kiss across Quentin's shoulders, the back of his neck. "I love you," he whispers, as Quentin groans under him. It's happening again, he can't stop saying it. "I love you," he repeats, hoping the tears on his cheeks will just read as drops of sweat if Quentin notices them.</p>
<p>"Eliot," Quentin says, voice cracking.</p>
<p>"Yeah?" Eliot breathes, glad to have an excuse to give himself a break from heart-wrenching honesty. "What do you want, darling, I'm going to give it to you, I love you, come for me--" Quentin rocks against the mattress and shudders and rocks again and Eliot slides down between his thighs and Quentin shudders apart. Eliot can feel the hot pulse of come against the sheets.</p>
<p>"Can I keep going," he whispers in Quentin's ear, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels, giving Q room to say no. But Q nods vigorously again, and Eliot makes a broken noise and fucks hard and fast into the heat of Quentin's clenched thighs until he comes, face buried in the back of Quentin's neck.</p>
<p>"So I kind of ended up spread-eagled on you anyway," he points out when he has enough breath in his lungs to speak again.</p>
<p>"You're heavy," Quentin says, muffled, so Eliot snorts and rolls off him. He has a moment to wipe the tears off his face before Quentin wiggles around onto his back and looks at him.</p>
<p>"Wow," Quentin says. His hand drifts to his own thighs, through the mess of lube and come between his legs. "I mean. Wow."</p>
<p>"Yeah," Eliot says, and then, "Yeah?"</p>
<p>"Yeah." Quentin laughs. "We're very coherent."</p>
<p>"Sorry, darling, you have to wait at least five minutes after you fuck my brains out before I can start making sense again."</p>
<p>Quentin leans over, kisses him slow. "Five minutes." He gets up to clean up, throws Eliot a damp washcloth so he can do the same once he can get himself off the bed. Then Quentin settles himself firmly into Eliot's arms, face to face, ankles crossing over each other and arm warm across Eliot's back.</p>
<p>"I think," he starts, looking nervous. Eliot searches his face, feeling sick, suddenly. "I think-- we can actually do this. <em>I</em> can actually do this."</p>
<p>"Do what?" Eliot asks.</p>
<p>"Be together," Quentin says. He smiles helplessly. "For real. I was never sure, I just really didn't know if I'd be able to handle it, ever." His arm squeezes Eliot tighter. "But I think the last few days, I've really gotten confident I can."</p>
<p>"These last few days haven't exactly been our normal routine," Eliot points out.</p>
<p>"What's a normal routine for us, even?" Quentin counters, and Eliot has no response to that, holding his lips tight together. "I was so scared that no matter how much I wanted you, I wouldn't be able to see you as you," Quentin says after a while. "But especially having sex, now, I <em>know</em> I can tell the difference, between you and it. It would have been-- so fucking easy, a minute ago, for you to-- accidentally-on-purpose fuck me, or even just ask if you could, and I probably would have said yes. But you didn't, you did exactly what I wanted and nothing else. It wouldn't have thought twice, it would just have taken what it wanted. But I wasn't even worried," he says, cupping Eliot's face in his hand. "Because I knew it was you."</p>
<p>"I'm not--" Eliot starts, around the ache in his chest. "I'm not always like this. I can't promise I will be, I'm selfish, I do the wrong thing. If you're expecting me to always be as on my game as I am now-- I can't guarantee that for you, Q. I can guarantee the opposite, in fact."</p>
<p>"I know," Quentin says. "I'm not always a picnic to live with, either. I mean, you know that."</p>
<p>"It's not even that." Real honesty. "This thing we have, it's-- so fragile. And you're so precious. I can't bear to hurt you any more." Eliot's blinking back tears again, and there's no hiding them from Quentin this time, not with their faces inches apart.</p>
<p>"Anything we get wrong, we'll find a way back from," Quentin says. "We're good at bouncing back." He kisses Eliot hard, then kisses his cheeks, smudging away the couple of tears that have escaped the surface tension and started making their descent.</p>
<p>You're good at bouncing back, Eliot thinks. I'm good at running away and then getting on with my life. If I stay with you, I’ll drag you down into that. He kisses Quentin's sweet, gorgeous mouth. "You're going to hate me for this," he says, "But I kind of promised Fen I would spend the night with her so we could wake up together."</p>
<p>"Oh, that's fine," Quentin says cheerfully, mid-yawn. "We're on her turf, anyway, makes sense."</p>
<p>Why can't anyone just be mad at him like he deserves? Why does he have to have these amazing, sympathetic, understanding people in his life, and it's on him to give them up for their own good? "I'll see you at breakfast," Eliot says, trying to keep his voice even. He finishes pulling on his pants, slings his shirt over his shoulder. "Sleep well."</p>
<p>"Love you, El," Quentin says, scooting over to the far side of the bed away from the mess on the sheets.</p>
<p>"Love you, Q," Eliot says, voice barely audible, as he leaves the room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Eliot wakes up with a phrase ringing like an alarm in his head: last day, last day, last day. Last day of the festival. Last day with Quentin. It's beyond doubt, now, that he's better. He said as much last night. So Eliot has today, and then he needs to make a clean break of it, take himself out of the equation while they're still at the peak of this roller coaster.</p>
<p>Fen takes his mind off it for a little while with cuddles and a very adorable hangover, and they barely make it down to breakfast before the servants clear it away. With some bacon and pastries in her, Fen is much improved, and grabs Eliot's and Quentin's hands and pulls them away, spends the day showing them some of her favorite parts of the festival, ones she went to last time it happened.</p>
<p>Eliot's dreading... well, everything, really, but especially Quentin's third sweetheart gift for him, which comes in the evening at dinner. It's a square tile, in a size that Eliot's hand instinctively remembers, covered in hammered gold with a gold leaf etched into the surface.</p>
<p>"It's not really like, useful," Quentin says, as Eliot stares at it, feeling a wail of despair build in the pit of his stomach. "But I figured it was very <em>us</em>."</p>
<p>Eliot grabs him by the wrist, yanks him into the tightest hug he can give without crushing him.</p>
<p>When they end up in bed that night, it's been a long, long day, and Eliot is nearly shaking with the effort of keeping his shit together. It would be smarter to go stay with Fen tonight, or even Margo, who he's barely seen this whole visit. But his brain is still saying <em>last day, last day</em> mockingly in his ear, and it's an impossible choice: take advantage of this final night and make tomorrow more painful, or start the pain earlier but maybe lessen it a bit? He caves and goes with the first option.</p>
<p>It occurs to him briefly, as Quentin is folding himself into his arms, smiling against his mouth, that he could throw the match, so to speak. Do something that Quentin would hate, or would trigger him. Make it easier, maybe, for Quentin to detach. But what he said the previous night holds true: he can't bear to hurt Quentin any more. So they kiss hungrily, grind against each other until it's too much, ruin yet another set of bedding with sweat and come. Eliot will owe the laundresses the last of his good mezcal.</p>
<p>Eliot doesn't want the sun to rise on the day after the festival. He contemplates casting something, just to see if he can keep it from coming up. But the bedroom brightens to gray, then blue, then the dazzle of sunrise. Eliot is awake, not having slept more than a couple hours in fits and starts all night. He watches Quentin's sleep-calm face and tells himself he's done being a coward, he's going to do this if it kills him.</p>
<p>He manages to doze off once more, lying on his stomach, and when he comes back to awareness again Quentin is sitting propped against the headboard reading. Eliot keeps his eyes closed. Maybe if he just stays in bed, time will stop around them. Or-- can he make a time loop? Would that destroy the universe? Wouldn't it be worth destroying the universe?</p>
<p>There's a small sound of displaced air and something warm and furry is sitting on Eliot's back. "GO TIME LOVE KADY," yells a rough voice.</p>
<p>"El," Quentin says, nudging his shoulder. "Wake up."</p>
<p>"GO TIME LOVE KADY!"</p>
<p>"I'm awake," Eliot mutters. "What-- do you know what it's talking about?"</p>
<p>"Julia said Kady was close to a breakthrough and might need all hands on deck." Quentin picks up the bunny, but Eliot doesn't have any chance to sit up before another furry something flumps onto him. </p>
<p>"PENNY COMING IN TEN," this one yells.</p>
<p>"I guess we're needed," Quentin says. He moves the second bunny off of Eliot and gets out of bed, groaning a bit with sore muscles, and starts pulling on his Earth clothes. "C'mon, El, this is it. We get to help take the Library down!"</p>
<p>Eliot has rolled over and sat up, which is about as much as he can manage without being sick. "Quentin," he says, mouth dry. </p>
<p>"Yeah?"</p>
<p>"Quentin, I love you." He shudders out a breath. "But I'm not coming."</p>
<p>Quentin frowns at him. "I mean, you don't have to come fight, I guess, but it'll be easier to get back to Earth with Penny than by hiking all the way out to the portal tree. And we could use you. Throw some librarians around with your mind."</p>
<p>"No," Eliot says. "I'm not coming back to Earth."</p>
<p>"Eliot, I think Margo and Fen and their <em>hundreds of servants</em> can handle cleaning up from the festival without you," Quentin says, rolling his eyes. He tosses Eliot's shirt at him.</p>
<p>"You're not understanding," Eliot says, snatching the shirt out of the air. "I'm not-- coming back. To Earth. At all. I'm going to stay here in Fillory permanently."</p>
<p>Quentin looks at him blankly, color starting to drain from his face. "El," he starts.</p>
<p>"Ever since I got my body back," Eliot interrupts. Real honesty, <em>real honesty</em>, why is this so <em>hard</em>. "I've been-- so scared, and ashamed, because I know I can't be good enough for you. I couldn't protect you then, and you destroyed yourself, all so you could save me. I can <em>never</em> repay that. I can never come close, and I know I'm going to fuck up so badly, the longer we stay together. So I decided, I'll get you back on your feet, undo as much of the damage as I can, and then when I've done the best I can I need to let you go." He swallows hard. "That's now. I've done everything I can for you. I can't keep holding you back."</p>
<p>"Eliot," Quentin says, his voice a croak. "That's not-- you're not holding me back, you fucking dumbass, what--" He's crying, Eliot made him cry again, this is just more evidence that he needs to go and leave Eliot behind. "You're saving me. You <em>have</em> saved me. Why-- I <em>love</em> you, El. I thought you loved me."</p>
<p>"I do," Eliot says, the mess of tears in his eyes mercifully blurring the awful look on Quentin's face. "I love you so much, that's why I have to do this."</p>
<p>"Are you fucking kidding me?" Quentin's skin has gone through gray and is shading into pink, close to red. "You--" He goes silent, for a long moment, and his voice is icy cold when he speaks again. "You talk a good fucking game about giving me whatever I want, but when push comes to shove you're not brave enough to actually do it, are you?"</p>
<p>Eliot feels like he's been stabbed in the chest. "It's not about that," he says. "If I stay with you, all I'm going to do is hurt you. I can't be selfish like that anymore, you mean too much to me."</p>
<p>"And it never occurred to you," Quentin says, his icy tone starting to waver, "That not actually trusting me to make my own decisions is also a fucking selfish thing to do? No, fuck all of that," he says fiercely, when Eliot tries to contradict him. "Fuck you. <em>Fuck</em> you. You're so scared of yourself that you can't even do me the fucking courtesy of seeing where things go, and you say you <em>love</em> me?"</p>
<p>There's a whoosh of displaced air, much bigger than the ones from the bunnies, and Penny materializes in the room. "Hey, go time," he says, then looks at their faces. "Okay, what the hell did I just walk into?"</p>
<p>"Let's go," Quentin snaps, grabbing his bag in one hand and Penny's shoulder in the other. "Eliot isn't coming."</p>
<p>"I--" Penny looks confused. "Eliot?"</p>
<p>"No," Eliot says, barely audible, shaking his head. "I'm not."</p>
<p>"We're not done with this conversation," Quentin says suddenly, glaring daggers at Eliot. "I'm coming back for you. You have until then to figure your shit out." He squeezes Penny's shoulder, and Penny looks uncertainly from Quentin to Eliot, then shrugs and vanishes, taking Quentin with him.</p>
<p>Eliot can't even cry, anymore. He just lies down on the bed and stares at the wall. The shadows change as the morning wears on.</p>
<p>He really thought being After-Eliot would be better than this, easier, but so far it feels awful.</p>
<p>Eventually there's a knock he doesn't respond to. Then another one a few minutes later. A murmured conversation outside his door. Then Margo walks in, no knocking. "What the fuck is going on?" she asks. "Where's Q?"</p>
<p>She sees Eliot's face, then, as he rolls towards her, and her expression melts. "Oh, El," she says. "Baby, c'mere."</p>
<p>Eliot lets her get on the bed and gather him into her arms, like the first night he had his body back, except he's already empty, this time. There are no tears left.</p>
<p>"What happened?" Margo asks, stroking his hair. "It went bad?"</p>
<p>"No," Eliot whispers. "I just did what I had to do."</p>
<p>"You what? What do you mean?"</p>
<p>Eliot explains: his inability to go without fucking up for more than a hot second. How badly Q was hurt, how badly he needs to never hurt Q ever again. The progress they made, how he knows Q is ready to be without him. "So I'm yours full-time now, Bambi," he says. "I'll go back and get my stuff at some point, but this is it, I'm tapping out. It’s for the best."</p>
<p>"Eliot," Margo croons. "Sit up, baby. Sit up for me."</p>
<p>Eliot heaves a sigh and does, scooting around to face her.</p>
<p>"Good," she says, and slaps him upside the head, <em>hard</em>.</p>
<p>"<em>Ow</em>," he says. "What the <em>fuck</em>, Bambi--"</p>
<p>"Coldwater's too much of a softie to do that himself," Margo says. "So it's my job. Always doing his dirty work, that boy owes me a drink or ten. God, you boys and your motherfucking <em>feelings</em>, it's fucking exhausting."</p>
<p>Eliot's ear is ringing. "What happened to 'if you decide it's best for you to stay, I'll back you all the way'?"</p>
<p>"You didn't <em>decide</em>, you fucking got cold feet and rationalized it," Margo says. "I was talking about if like, it turns out the whole exposure therapy thing doesn’t work and he really needs you gone, or he wants to move to Portland and own a fucking nerd hipster bookstore and you don't want to go with. Or he wants kids and you don't. A <em>real</em> problem, not some shit you made up in that twisted fucking brain of yours." She raises a hand, and Eliot flinches, but she just smooths his hair down. "Is this what you wanted to talk to me about this whole time? <em>Fuck</em>, I should have let you, this is my fucking fault."</p>
<p>"No, nothing is your fault. Did you not just hear me? This is all me.” The emptiness in Eliot’s stomach is getting replaced with anger. He did the right thing, and this is the thanks he gets? “My body caused the problem. It was my job to set things right, and now it’s my job to get out before I can undo everything I did. Have you ever known me to know when to stop, Margo? I timed it right, here, at least give me some fucking credit for that.”</p>
<p>“I’m not giving you credit for shit except being an absolute fucking dumbass,” Margo says. “Let me repeat this back for you: you love this guy. Like, make-me-fucking-puke love this guy. I can tell, don’t fucking deny it. And he loves you exactly as fucking much, and you think the best thing you can do for him is to run away? How would you feel if he ran away from you?”</p>
<p>“I’d deserve it,” Eliot says, feeling hollow.</p>
<p>“Yeah, but how would you <em>feel</em>?” There’s a knock on the door, and Margo stands up with a groan. “Look, I’d love to sit with you while you figure out what a colossal fucking mistake you just made, but duty calls. Just let me know you’re leaving before you go running off to dramatically throw yourself at Q’s feet and beg for his forgiveness.”</p>
<p>“One, I’m not doing that, and two, even if I wanted to I don’t know where he actually is. He left with Penny to go fight in Kady's revolution," Eliot says.</p>
<p>Margo goes very quiet. "You’ve known all morning," she asks, low and intense. "That Kady's revolution is going down <em>right now</em>. And you didn’t tell me?!"</p>
<p>"I’ve had a couple things on my mind,” Eliot snaps.</p>
<p>"We'll deal with that later," Margo says. "First we have to figure out how to get where the action is. I'm gonna rip some Librarian's balls off and feed them to him."</p>
<p>But they feel it, then: a shift, like the camera angle on life changes, like someone turned up the volume on the stereo.</p>
<p>"Magic," Eliot breathes. "Magic, Margo, they did it."</p>
<p>"Mother<em>fuckers</em>," Margo says. "And I didn't even get to disembowel anybody."</p>
<p>They sit very still for a long time, waiting for the ambient magic to fade back to almost nothing, for the flow to waver again. But it doesn't. It's back. It's <em>back</em>, actually, like when they were first years, with this newly discovered resource always at their fingertips, filling in a space they hadn't known was open in the depths of who they were. </p>
<p>It's not enough to make Eliot feel happy, but it's enough to get him up, at least, and bathed and dressed. Margo stays with him, casting little charms to make different-colored bubbles in his bath and dry his hair without a towel. He tries to smile, a lot. He knows he should. He can’t quite.</p>
<p>
  <em>You didn’t decide, you fucking got cold feet and rationalized it.</em>
</p>
<p>Someone knocks on the door, at some point, and Margo sends them away. "Not <em>now</em>," she says. "Can't you see I'm predicting the weather?" And she laughs delightedly as the conjured clouds in the palm of her hand roll away from her conjured sun to reveal a beautiful fall day.</p>
<p>Eventually she decides to go find them some food, since Josh is almost certainly making something fucking crazy now that he’s got access to all his spells again, leaving Eliot alone in his room. Quentin’s room? Nobody’s room. He’s just going to live in Fen’s room full time, now, this can go back to being a guest room.</p>
<p>
  <em>You think the best thing you can do for him is to run away? How would you feel if he ran away from you?</em>
</p>
<p>He circles the room, picking up his things. His clothes from last night, discarded hastily to get more of Quentin’s skin against his skin. A couple of those festival gossip pamphlets Quentin had kept him supplied with every time a new edition came out. His toothbrush in the bathroom.</p>
<p>On the bedside table, the tile Quentin gave him.</p>
<p>He holds it in both hands, the edges biting into his fingers a little.</p>
<p>He’s never deserved Quentin’s love. Not the love Quentin nurtured through the decades at the mosaic. Not the love that nearly destroyed him while Eliot was the Monster. Not the love that lit up his face these past few nights every time their eyes met. He’s never deserved it. He’s never <em>asked</em> for it. And Quentin keeps giving it to him anyway.</p>
<p>
  <em>You talk a good fucking game about giving me whatever I want, but when push comes to shove you’re not brave enough to actually do it, are you?</em>
</p>
<p>Margo comes back with a plate of brightly-colored cupcakes. “I cannot promise these won’t make us trip balls,” she says, “but Josh assures me they’ll at least taste good while they do it.”</p>
<p>“Bambi,” Eliot says. “I think I made a huge mistake.” </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Quentin said he was coming back. He said it. Quentin doesn’t lie. (Not like Eliot, Eliot lies all the fucking time, to himself and everyone around him even when he claims he’s trying to be honest.) He didn’t say <em>when</em>, and the timing between this world and that world is unpredictable at best, but magic’s been back on for hours now and he has to come back, right? He said he would.</p>
<p>The longer the day drags on, the more Eliot is expecting a series of bunnies from Julia: Q didn't make it / you broke his heart / let his guard down / gonna fucking kill you. </p>
<p>He'd deserve it if she killed him. He tells Margo as much, but he ducks out of the way of her slap this time.</p>
<p>"You have to stop with all this 'deserve' shit," she says, absently levitating an apple in figure-eights. "Nobody deserves anything. We get what we get, and we accept it or we don't. You've got Q, you've got me, you've got Fen. Reject it if you want to, but don't try to convince the universe you shouldn't have it in the first place."</p>
<p>“I don’t know if I’ve got Q, anymore,” Eliot says, fear strangling his chest.</p>
<p>“Not with that attitude you won’t.”</p>
<p>Eliot's scared to close his eyes, scared to go take a piss, in case Q comes back and he misses it. He's very scared to talk to Fen, whose pitying eyes he can't possibly endure right now. He saw them from across the room, when Margo filled her in, and it's terrifying to think that <em>Fen</em> knew better than Eliot did, this whole time, could have told him what a fucking huge idiot he was being. Why, <em>why</em> is he like this, he has all these brilliant women around him who see things so much more clearly than he does, always, <em>why</em> doesn’t he listen to them. <em>Fuck.</em></p>
<p>It's far past when he should be sleeping, given the terrible sleep he got last night. But he's out in the courtyard, sitting among the bare trees and watching the stars, trying to rehearse a speech he desperately hopes he’ll have a chance to give.</p>
<p>The rush of displaced air is quiet, but not so quiet Eliot doesn't notice it. He leaps to his feet, whirls towards the noise.</p>
<p>Q is leaning heavily on Penny's shoulder. His clothes are covered in soot, the left side of his hair is burnt about three inches shorter than the right, and there's a huge bloodstain on one leg of his jeans. He still looks absolutely furious.</p>
<p>"Thanks," he says to Penny, who gives Eliot a serious side-eye and vanishes again.</p>
<p>Eliot tries to rush forward, help Quentin take the weight off his obviously injured leg, but Quentin takes a step back and winces and Eliot freezes. Not again. He can't do this again, he can't go back to Q not being able to touch him, or look at him, he can't. </p>
<p>Quentin eases himself onto a bench, raises his eyebrows until Eliot sits on the opposite end.</p>
<p>"You did it," Eliot says awkwardly. "You got magic running again."</p>
<p>"We did," Quentin says. "It wasn't easy. But, you know, magic comes from pain, so I was pretty fucking fired up."</p>
<p>"I'm so sorry," Eliot says, and then just like the other night with the I-love-yous he can't <em>stop</em> saying it. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm a fucking idiot, I'm so sorry." He takes a deep breath. "Every word you said about me was right. I'm so <em>fucking</em> scared, all the time, because I don't know what I'm going to fuck up next. I didn’t want to take the coward's way out, but I felt like-- leaving right away would be that, and staying longer than I'm welcome would be that, and the only path I could see was to-- try and balance, and split the difference."</p>
<p>"Did anything I've said to you make you think that I was looking for something <em>temporary</em>?" Quentin asks. His voice is raw.</p>
<p>"I know, I just, I'm a terrible listener, honestly." Eliot feels lightheaded, too much adrenaline on too little sleep. "I think-- I stopped technically being trapped in my head a long time ago when you got the Monster. But I've still actually been trapped in my head, just in a different way, and I didn't realize," his voice cracks and he tries again, "I didn't realize that I was only making sense to myself, because I never asked anyone else."</p>
<p>"Yeah, like <em>me</em>," Quentin says. "The other person in this relationship."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," Eliot says again. "I love you, Q, I love you so much it's terrifying. I've, any time I've felt this way about someone it hasn't gone well. Ever. Except for Bambi, but she's different."</p>
<p>“You think maybe that has something to do with you sabotaging yourself at every turn?”</p>
<p>“I don’t--” Eliot starts, then stops, changes direction towards honesty. “I don’t know how to not sabotage myself.”</p>
<p>“You can just let things be good, you know,” Quentin says. “That is an option, doing nothing? You could’ve just-- not done this shit. You could’ve come and backed us up in the fight and just <em>not</em> done this.” His voice is rising in volume as he talks. “Or if you’re fucking determined to dump me, maybe you could not stay in the fucking magical fantasy kingdom that <em>I</em> actually give a fuck about, so I could never go back?”</p>
<p>“What--” That’s not what Eliot was trying to do. Margo is here, of course Eliot should be here too, that’s all. “Of course you can come back, it’s your place as much as it is mine--”</p>
<p>“More than,” Quentin snarls. “And you decided to turn it into a I-can’t-go-there, my-ex-lives-there thing. Another decision you made for me.”</p>
<p>“Quentin, I’m trying to apologize.” Eliot’s shaking, his chest is an anxious knot. “It was a <em>mistake</em>, I fucked up, I take it all back. I wish I could take it back.”</p>
<p>“You said you were my boyfriend,” Quentin says. “You said you were mine, you said you <em>loved</em> me. And the whole time you were planning to leave? The <em>whole time</em>?”</p>
<p>“Not the whole time,” Eliot says, and he realizes as he’s saying it that it’s absolutely true. “Whenever we were together, I wanted to stay, so fucking badly. I just-- sometimes if I thought too hard about it, or when I messed up--” he swallows hard. “I messed up a <em>lot</em>, Q. And it’s so hard for me to see you like that, so scared--”</p>
<p>“Yeah, maybe almost as hard as <em>being</em> that scared.” Quentin stares up at the night sky, exhales sharply. “Jesus Christ, Eliot, you get the fucking irony here, right? About overthinking it?”</p>
<p>“I do,” Eliot says, in a small voice. “I do, I’m so sorry.”</p>
<p>“You think you were messing up before-- that was nothing, this is-- how can I possibly trust you? How can I trust I’m not going to wake up and you’re going to be gone?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t do that again. I won’t, I won’t, I can’t. I barely could this time--</p>
<p>“But you <em>did</em>--”</p>
<p>“Because I’m a <em>fucking idiot</em>, and a coward.” Eliot’s hot all over, misery permeating every inch of his skin. “I don’t know how you can trust me, because I don’t know how <em>I</em> can trust me, if my instincts can be so fucking wrong about something so important. Because you <em>are</em> important to me, Quentin,” he adds, trying to preempt an accusation he can’t bear to hear. “You’re everything. I’m yours, I’m always yours, I’d be yours forever if you could still love me--”</p>
<p>“Would I be fucking yelling like this if I didn’t still love you?” Quentin shouts. “<em>Fuck,</em> El. Jesus fucking Christ. I wouldn’t have come back.”</p>
<p>Eliot sits stunned, and Quentin laughs harshly at the look on his face. “Yeah, I don’t fucking know what to do with that either,” he says. “We’re both fucking idiots. I shouldn’t have come back, probably, but I still-- I don’t know, I had to know <em>why</em>. Because if I know why, maybe I can figure out if we can do something with this, still.”</p>
<p>“I want to,” Eliot breathes. “I’ll do anything.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Quentin says. “I thought I knew, I don’t know now. Maybe, maybe not.” He grimaces and squeezes his knee, the one with the bloodstains.</p>
<p>“We should get you to the healers,” Eliot says. This is something he knows to be true. This is solid ground. Quentin’s hurt, physically, and the healers can do something about that. “Can I--?” He stands, offers Quentin a hand.</p>
<p>Quentin grits his teeth and takes it. He lets Eliot get an arm around his waist to support him, and together they limp into the castle, not speaking.</p>
<p>Eliot gets about as much sleep that night as he did the night before, which is to say not much. Margo and Fen find them as soon as they’re inside the building, and as the very sleepy healer works on Quentin’s leg, they get Quentin to tell them all about the battle. It takes a long time to tell in full, because he has to back up and fill Margo and Fen in on the groundwork Kady has been laying for months, that Eliot knew about in a vague way but is extremely impressive, when he hears the details. He leans against the windowsill, dazed, mostly just grateful that Quentin let him stay and listen.</p>
<p>"Are the fuckers gonna come for us?" Margo wants to know. "Try and take back control?"</p>
<p>Quentin shrugs, shakes his head. "No way to know. Julia and Kady have contingency plans. I don't think anyone else knows them in full, in case there's a mole somewhere, or the Library has dirt on someone."</p>
<p>"The Library has dirt on everyone," Margo points out. "They literally keep our entire lives, past and future, in books with our names on them."</p>
<p>"So I guess the key is, don't do anything you wouldn't want them telling the world about," Fen says. "Live life with no regrets."</p>
<p>Quentin and Eliot let out identical humorless laughs, at that, then Quentin briefly glances at Eliot and away.</p>
<p>“Margo, weird question, but. Would you stay the night with me? I don’t want to sleep alone,” Quentin says, as the healer ties the last knot on the bandages on his leg.</p>
<p>“Of course, baby,” Margo says. She doesn’t even look over at Eliot. She’s smarter than that. </p>
<p>Fen, at least, knows a dismissal when she hears one, and looks at Eliot and jerks her head towards the door. They follow the healer out, and they don’t speak as they tuck themselves into bed, Eliot curled around a pillow.</p>
<p>There’s a strained quality to the silence, and eventually he says, “Go ahead. Say it.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think I need to,” Fen says. “I don’t think I could make it worse for you than you’ve made it for yourself.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Eliot says.</p>
<p>She puts a hand on his shoulder, tentatively, and wraps herself around him when he nods into the dark.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Ch 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Margo comes in the next morning, Eliot’s been groggily awake for several hours already, and is trying to decide whether literally throwing himself on the ground at Quentin’s feet would be at all helpful. “Rise and shine, fuckhead,” she says. “The absolute nicest boy in the damn universe wants to see you.”</p>
<p>“Does he--” Eliot isn’t sure what he’s asking. “Why?”</p>
<p>“I don’t <em>think</em> it’s to viciously dump you and leave you a miserable shell of yourself,” Margo says. “Clean up, pack your bag. Sounds like he wants to head home, and he might even want you with him.”</p>
<p>Eliot doesn’t shave, his hands are shaking too badly and he’ll definitely cut himself. But he washes up and gets dressed in the last set of clean Earth clothes he brought, and makes his feet climb the stairs up to Quentin’s room.</p>
<p>Quentin’s sitting on the bed, messenger bag sitting next to him. Eliot can’t help doing a once-over: injured leg straight out in front like he can’t bend it yet to sit cross-legged, hair still fucked up and burnt, but no blood, no red eyes from crying, no grey cast to his skin like he gets when he doesn’t sleep enough. He’s okay.</p>
<p>They just kind of look at each other for a long, long time. Quentin eventually makes a face like <em>welp, here we are,</em> and Eliot nods almost imperceptibly, and then Quentin snorts softly and Eliot smiles, reflexively.</p>
<p>“I haven’t made any decisions,” Quentin says. “But I have an idea, and it needs both of us to be on Earth. So. Come back with me?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Eliot says.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to hike out to the portal tree on this,” Quentin says, waving at his leg, “so Penny’s on his way.”</p>
<p>“Great.”</p>
<p>“Do you need to tell anyone you’re leaving, or?”</p>
<p>“No. No, I said bye already. And that I’ll bunny, when-- I know more about long term plans.”</p>
<p>They wait in awkward silence again until Penny pops into existence next to them, looking extremely wary.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says after a beat. “This is better than the yelling, maybe we’re getting somewhere. Come on, train’s leaving. I’ve got shit to do.”</p>
<p>He walks over to where Quentin’s sitting to touch his arm, and Eliot puts a hand on his shoulder, and they’re in the living room of Quentin’s apartment. Penny’s managed to land them with Quentin sitting on the couch, Eliot and himself standing nearby.</p>
<p>“Damn,” Eliot says. “You’re good.”</p>
<p>“Way easier to see where I’m going when the faucet’s on full blast instead of a drip.” Penny gives them a smart-alecky salute and vanishes again.</p>
<p>Quentin shifts his leg with a noise of discomfort and starts to stand. Eliot wants so badly to help him, but he finds himself backing up a step instead.</p>
<p>“I’ll just-- go, then?” Eliot says. “I don’t know what your plan is, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”</p>
<p>Quentin’s mouth twitches at that, half-smile half-grimace. “I need a couple hours to get what I need,” he says. “So yeah, maybe come back at like. Dinner time? Six?” He looks out the window -- it looks like it’s earlier in the morning than it was in Fillory.</p>
<p>“I can do that,” Eliot says, mouth dry. “Anything you need before I go, food, can I help--”</p>
<p>“Eliot,” Quentin says, and Eliot shuts up. “I’ll see you tonight.”</p>
<p>Eliot tries not to slink out of the apartment with his metaphorical tail between his legs. He’s not sure how well he manages it.</p>
<p>The penthouse has showers (bless showers) and different clothes and a fridge full of ingredients perfect for stress-cooking. Mercifully, it does not have Julia, who Eliot still thinks would be well within her rights to murder him. Some member of Team Q he’s turning out to be. He knew, he always knew he couldn’t--</p>
<p>No. Trust Q. Trust what he wants. Eliot would trust the man with his life, <em>has</em> on numerous occasions. Hold on to that.</p>
<p>He arrives back at Q’s apartment at 6:03 (not neurotically right on time, not too late) with tupperwares full of, essentially, a five-course meal of Q’s favorite foods. Risotto isn’t exactly a normal accompaniment for steak fajitas, but he couldn’t decide which so he just did both.</p>
<p>Quentin laughs as Eliot starts unloading food onto the table. Eliot’s heart soars -- it’s a real laugh, not the sarcastic too-knowing one Q’s been doing, mostly, since Eliot fucked up. “Jesus, El, did you even sleep?” he asks. “You still look awful-- are those lemon bars?”</p>
<p>“They are,” Eliot says. </p>
<p>“This is good, actually,” Quentin says, around the piece of steak he’s already popped into his mouth. “We’re not supposed to use it on an empty stomach. I think the dishwasher’s clean, get a plate.”</p>
<p>Eliot doesn’t know what <em>it</em> is, but chooses not to ask. Trust Q. Trust Q. He’s not sure how he’s going to get through a silent dinner, but Quentin mercifully turns on the TV, and they eat to the dulcet tones of Wheel of Fortune.</p>
<p>Once Eliot’s stocked the fridge with the leftovers -- if this all goes sideways, at least Quentin won’t have to order takeout for a few days -- he goes over to where Quentin is sitting on the couch, contemplating a small green glass bottle on the coffee table.</p>
<p>“I don’t know that getting drunk is the way to go with this,” Eliot says.</p>
<p>“No,” Quentin agrees. “It’s not alcohol, it’s truthies. I realized -- this is a way for me to hear why, and be sure I can believe you. I have a few favors I can call in now-- you know, since I saved magic and everything. So I got a bottle, and.” He sighs sharply. “It’s a wild plan, it’s asking a lot of you. You don’t have to. We can figure out another way.”</p>
<p>Eliot wonders if he means that, that he’d try to figure out some other way to trust Eliot again, or if it’s just reflex. “I don’t know if you’ll like what you hear,” he says. “I’m pretty sure you won’t.”</p>
<p>“That is always the risk,” Quentin says. “And I don’t know if whatever you say will-- be enough. So there’s that risk too.” He shuts his eyes, for a moment, breathes deeply. “Anyway, that’s my idea. Thoughts?”</p>
<p>Eliot picks up the bottle, looks at the shimmer of the child-proofing ward on the cork. Being dosed with this stuff was Before-Eliot’s worst fucking nightmare. Having to answer every question asked of him, with no deflection, no places to hide? He’d have fucking jumped off a building rather than do it willingly. And Now-Eliot -- the Now-Eliot he used to be, anyway -- would never have agreed to it either, despite all his claims and promises of real honesty.</p>
<p>He’s After-Eliot, now, and wasn’t that supposed to be different? He moves his hand in the right tut to undo the ward.</p>
<p>Quentin sits up straighter. “Sit down,” he says, patting the cushions next to him. “It might make you kind of woozy at first. You only need like one mouthful, apparently.”</p>
<p>It tastes like nothing -- not like water, like <em>nothing</em>, the absence of taste. Incredibly strange. “How long until it starts working?”</p>
<p>“I think it’s pretty quick,” Quentin says. “At the mosaic, who <em>actually</em> spilled honey all over my book that one time?”</p>
<p>“Me,” Eliot says automatically. “I let you ground Teddy for it because he’d been a total dick all day, but I snuck him some dessert anyway when you weren’t looking because it wasn’t actually his fault.”</p>
<p>“I fucking knew it,” Quentin says, grinning broadly. “Okay. Okay. Basics. What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Eliot Waugh. You know you don’t have to do this like a lie detector test in a cop show, right? I’ll just tell you anything, you don’t need a baseline of true things to compare what I say to.”</p>
<p>“Not technically, but. I need it. Just to make sure it’s working.”</p>
<p>“I’m not immune to truth serum,” Eliot says. “I lie like any other person could, I don’t have any kind of special talent for it. I just do it all the time.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think anyone’s entitled to who I really am on the inside.” Eliot swallows hard. “It’s never turned out well for me to let anyone in there, except Margo, they always -- find a way to use it against me. And anyway, the outside me is so much better. Why would I want anyone to see what a mess I really am?”</p>
<p>Quentin tips his head to the side. “So why’d you agree to this?”</p>
<p>Even if he wasn’t dosed, the answer would be immediate, on his lips without thinking. “Because I love you so much more than I love myself. And I really doubt I can make myself be actually honest without magical help. I was trying, actually, since I got my body back. I told myself I was trying, anyway. I just kept making exceptions. The last time I had an actually honest conversation was at the Trials, with Margo, because I knew I absolutely had to to keep being a magician and that was life or death, for me. I told her--”</p>
<p>“Wait,” Quentin says, and lunges forward to cover Eliot’s mouth with his hand. “I don’t need to know that.”</p>
<p>“I don’t deserve you,” Eliot says when Quentin takes his hand away. “Who would truthie someone and not want to hear all their secrets? You’re too good, it’s actually fucking annoying because it reminds me how shitty I am in comparison.”</p>
<p>“Stop talking,” Quentin says. “I need to figure out my next question.”</p>
<p>Eliot complies by actually biting his tongue, and still thinks he only manages to stay quiet because Quentin ordered him to. Quentin’s deep in thought, staring at Eliot like the right question to ask is written under his skin and if Quentin just looks hard enough he’ll find it. Eliot hopes he can find it.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Quentin starts.</p>
<p>“Your hair looks truly awful like this, I need you to get it fixed before I can be seen in public with you,” Eliot blurts out. “I’m really going to miss it until it grows back out. Wow, sorry, that was rude.”</p>
<p>“And correct,” Quentin says, touching the shorter side of his hair self-consciously. “All right, let’s do this. Why did you decide to leave me?”</p>
<p>“Because you’re going to stop loving me eventually, and when you do it’ll be my fault,” Eliot says. His voice is still matter-of-fact, a side effect of the truth serum, but his chest is tightening and tears are filling his eyes. Quentin huffs out a sharp breath, too. “It’s easier if I just end things on my terms, on my timeline, before that can happen. And it’s easier to do if I pretend I’m doing it for your own good, so I can keep up the appearance of being a good person. Even though I’m choosing to hurt you deliberately, which is very much not being a good person.”</p>
<p>Quentin’s jaw is tight and he’s breathing hard through his nose. Eliot hates this. It sounds even worse when he says it out loud, there’s no way Quentin forgives him after this. And the magic makes it impossible to hold anything back. “There’s more,” he says. “I’m-- mad at you, for what you did with the Monster, because it shows you’re so much fucking better than I am. I resent you for being stronger than I am and holding out the whole time, because you put me in your debt in a way I can never possibly repay. Unless I die for you, which I wouldn’t be brave enough to do.”</p>
<p>Quentin’s face has crumpled into that squashed grimace Eliot hates to see and finds so endearing at the same time. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, his nose is running. Eliot really wishes words didn’t keep spilling from his mouth, but there’s nothing he can do. “I hate being out of control, and you make me feel more out of control than anyone, so being with you is exhausting. I was relieved by the idea of not being with you, when I thought of it, because then I wouldn’t have to be so fucking careful all the time.”</p>
<p>“So why didn’t you just go right away?” Quentin asks. “Why stay at all?”</p>
<p>“Because I also love you, just-- it’s impossible to explain how deeply, and I owe you absolutely everything, and since I’m not willing to die for you, probably, this was the most sacrificing thing I could think of.” Eliot’s crying like his soul has turned to salt tears, gasping every half-sentence to sob some more. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Also I really wanted to have sex with you again, some of the best sex I’ve had has been with you and I wanted that again if there was any chance I could.”</p>
<p>Some expression not fully like a smile, not fully like a frown twitches across Quentin’s wet face. “New topic. When the Monster had your body. What was it like for you? Could you tell what was going on?”</p>
<p>“No,” Eliot practically shouts, his voice rising through the truthie-induced calm. “No, fuck no, I couldn’t tell, I had absolutely no idea. I was in this mind palace kind of thing, I could go to my memories but I had no awareness of the outside world, none at all. That first time I got through to see outside, I didn’t know if I was going to even see anyone I knew, what I would be in the middle of doing. And then the second time I really hoped I’d see you again.” He takes a shuddering breath, tears continuing to fall. “And then when I did I really wished I hadn’t, because then I knew what was happening and it was horrible. I would have rather woken up in the middle of murdering someone. Which makes me a significantly worse human than you are, I know.”</p>
<p>“Did you really want me to kill you?” Quentin asks. His shoulders are shaking with sobs. Eliot still can’t tell what he’s feeling, other than absolutely awful.</p>
<p>“At the time? Absolutely. I couldn’t, there was no way for me to justify staying alive. I love you so fucking much, and you’re such a better person than I am, I’m not worth saving at your expense. Now I’m glad you didn’t, because I know how it turned out, but then -- I really thought the next time I woke up I’d be in the Underworld, and that felt like the best possible outcome.”</p>
<p>“Eliot,” Quentin says, cutting him off. His hands are in white-knuckled fists in his lap. He takes a deep breath, hiccups a little halfway through it. “Are you going to leave me again?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to,” Eliot says. “I never want to again. But I’m scared, I can’t stop being scared, and I don’t know how strong I can be. I don’t trust myself. I can’t honestly tell you no, and <em>that</em> scares me. But if I do ever leave it won’t be because of you, it’ll be me. Which is a complete fucking cliche, I cannot believe I actually said that.”</p>
<p>Quentin laughs wetly. “Okay,” he says. “I know-- here.” He picks up the green bottle, takes a big sip before Eliot can stop him.</p>
<p>“Why did you <em>do</em> that?” Eliot asks as Quentin swallows. “I’m not worth it.”</p>
<p>“You are to me,” Quentin says, and blinks as he feels the truth serum take effect. “This way we’re on an even playing field. Okay, so. I was never going to kill you. Fucking never. I would have died first. I love you so much, but I’m so fucking angry at you for throwing that away, and I’m-- clinically depressed and anxious, and such a fucking mess I’d never believe that it wasn’t my fault if you left. Now I kind of believe it, I guess, because you’re clearly a fucking mess too. Which I always knew, but like, wow, El.”</p>
<p>Eliot buries his face in his hands. He can’t look at Quentin, his face still a mess of tears and snot because Eliot is awful, telling him everything because Eliot is selfish and Quentin is selfless. “I told you, you wouldn’t want to see what I’m really like.”</p>
<p>“I do, though, is the thing.” Quentin reaches out and grabs Eliot’s hands, holds them tight. “I want to know you.”</p>
<p>“Well, you know it all now,” Eliot says. His heart is pounding. He squeezes Quentin’s fingers. He’s terrified to ask, but he has to, he’s desperate to know and the truthies won’t let him hold back the question. “What are you thinking?”</p>
<p>“I hate that you hurt me like this on purpose.” A fresh wave of tears pours down Quentin’s cheeks. “I hate that you feel like what I did, with the Monster, was for nothing--”</p>
<p>“Not for nothing, just not worth what you gave me,” Eliot interrupts.</p>
<p>“But it <em>was</em> worth it, because you’re worth it to me, and it worked, didn’t it?” Quentin says. “Now shut up, your self loathing gets old real fast.” He breathes deeply, a little less shaky than before. “I’m scared you’ll leave again too, but weirdly knowing you’re scared about it makes me feel better? Because then it seems like you’ll actually fight it, next time you want to go. And now that I know, and you know I know, we can fight it together, maybe.”</p>
<p>“Does that mean--” Eliot chokes on the end of the sentence.</p>
<p>“I want to,” Quentin says. “I want to be with you, I think it’s objectively a fucking stupid idea but when has that ever stopped me, honestly. I love you and I’m not going to stop loving you. I never stop loving anyone, really. And-- I think we proved it, in the other timeline, that we actually make each other better. That’s not-- something I’ve had, in all my relationships. Or most of them. I usually make people worse. Proof of concept isn’t the same as a guarantee, but if you’re willing to actually try, <em>actually</em> try, I think we can do it.”</p>
<p>Eliot’s heart fucking leaps, maybe explodes. “Oh my god, Quentin-- I’ll try my fucking hardest, I can promise I’ll try. I can’t be as honest as this on a regular basis, though. It would be smart for you to keep this stuff around. I really don’t want you to dose me again but like objectively, you probably should every once in a while, just to make sure I’m not fucking up in my head again.”</p>
<p>Quentin looks horrified. “I’m not going to fucking do that, that’s like. I wouldn’t be any better than the Monster if I did that to you.”</p>
<p>“<em>God</em> I’m happy to hear you say that, I hate this so fucking much.” Eliot laugh-sobs wildly. “I’m scared. This is crazy. You’re crazy for staying with me.”</p>
<p>“Definitely,” Quentin agrees. “I’m crazy in a lot of other ways too. This is not the most self-destructive crazy thing I’ve ever done.”</p>
<p>“Are we done with the emotional part of this conversation yet? Because if so I really need to blow my nose, and then I want to make out and then make you come really hard,” Eliot says. </p>
<p>“Fuck that sounds good,” Quentin breathes. “Yeah, let’s do that.”</p>
<p>Eliot launches himself off the couch and into the bathroom. While he’s washing his face, he calls back to Quentin, “This is me using sex to avoid being honest, again. I do that a lot.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Quentin says. “I’m letting you, you are really fucking good at sex.”</p>
<p>Eliot shudders and finishes up, then goes back into the living room. Quentin has his shirt off and his jeans and underwear most of the way down, although it looks like he’s struggling to get them over his bandaged leg. Eliot rakes his eyes over him: scratched up a little, bruised in a couple places, but so fucking gorgeous.</p>
<p>“I will never ever get tired of looking at you,” he tells Quentin as he kneels to help him with his jeans.</p>
<p>Quentin makes a face. “I don’t get why. But you have to be telling the truth, so.” He laughs, suddenly. “Man, I guess if either of us have been faking anything, we’re about to find out.”</p>
<p>“I don’t fake anything with you,” Eliot says, very seriously. Then he grins and surges forward, kissing Quentin, hands framing his face and sliding into his hair where it’s still long enough.</p>
<p>Quentin moans into his mouth, deepens the kiss until they’re panting. When they come up for air, he makes a frustrated noise, and says, “I want you naked but you’re also fucking hot in your clothes, this is such a fucking dumb dilemma to have.”</p>
<p>“I can stay dressed for you if you want it,” Eliot says. He loosens his tie but doesn’t take it off, starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I did say I wanted to make out first. You’re the one who went straight to clothes off. I’m trying to be responsible and take things slow.”</p>
<p>“We can make out naked,” Quentin points out, working on more of Eliot’s buttons, his fingers tangling with Eliot’s and making the process just that much harder. “I can’t decide, I don’t know what I want tonight. I want to be okay enough for you to fuck me.”</p>
<p>Eliot makes a pained noise. “Fuck, I want that so badly, I want to be inside you.”</p>
<p>Quentin kisses him hard, pulls him forward by the open points of his collar until they’re lying down, Eliot half on top of Quentin. </p>
<p>“Tell me if I hurt you,” Eliot says, shifting his weight carefully away from Quentin’s bad leg. “You don’t look too banged up, but I can’t hurt you anymore, even just leaning on a fucking bruise or something.”</p>
<p>“You haven’t yet.” Quentin’s got his hands all over Eliot under Eliot’s shirt. Eliot kisses him, and doesn’t stop kissing him, barely lets him up for air before he’s back with his tongue on Quentin’s lips and his fingers cupping the back of Quentin’s neck, searching down the line of his body for more skin to touch. His fingers reach Quentin’s dick, just starting to get hard, and skim lightly over it, and Quentin gasps under him.</p>
<p>“God, you’re so sensitive,” Eliot whispers against Quentin’s chin, kissing his way under Quentin’s jaw. “It’s hot as hell, I get off so hard on making you feel good.”</p>
<p>“Eliot,” Quentin whines. One hand clutches at Eliot’s hair as he tongues along Quentin’s collarbone. The other is at the small of Eliot’s back, working to untuck the back of Eliot’s shirt, worm its way down into Eliot’s pants.</p>
<p>“What do you want, Q?” Eliot purrs, so glad the truth serum will at least let him still talk dirty. His libido is maybe the most honest part of his soul anyway, so it does make sense.</p>
<p>“<em>Everything</em>,” Quentin gasps. “I want to fucking crawl inside you and never come out.”</p>
<p>“That’s weird but I get the metaphor.” Eliot palms Quentin’s cock again, more firmly, fingers up and down the shaft and over the head. “I love feeling your cock fill up in my hand, it’s such a nice little handful.”</p>
<p>“Little?” Quentin asks. “I’d pretend to be offended but actually, I get it, I guess. And I can’t pretend anything right now.” He pushes his hips up against Eliot, grinding against his hand.</p>
<p>“It’s the perfect size for your body, you are just a small man,” Eliot clarifies. “And I have huge hands. Anyway I like that I can deep-throat it pretty easily, I love being able to get all of you in my mouth.”</p>
<p>Quentin grinds up against him again. “I want that, I want it,” he moans. “I want your tongue on me.”</p>
<p>“I want to,” Eliot gasps, and scrambles backwards to make it happen. “Please don’t panic.” </p>
<p>Getting his mouth on Quentin’s cock is fucking <em>heaven</em>. The truth serum tries to make him tell Quentin that, but he’s got his mouth full and he’s not fucking changing that anytime soon. It’s beautifully familiar, the weight on his tongue and the nudge of the head at the back of his throat, not a problem, just a reminder to slow down, focus. He can’t rush this, not that he would want to, anyway. If he rushes he might miss the twitch of Quentin’s cock as he slides up, dragging the point of his tongue up the underside. He might miss the way Quentin’s fingers grab at his shirt collar, tentatively brush across his hair before they twine themselves into his curls. He might miss a split-second of the broken-off noises Quentin is making, and that would be inexcusable, they’re so fucking amazing.</p>
<p>“God Eliot that feels so <em>good</em>,” Quentin moans as Eliot swallows him down. His cheeks are flushed pink, his chest heaving. “Oh my <em>god</em>, is that, this can’t be how good it feels when I suck you off, you must be doing some fucking magic something.”</p>
<p>Eliot lets his mouth come off Quentin with an audible <em>pop</em> so he can say, “It absolutely feels that good when you suck me off. You suck cock like you absolutely can’t get enough of it, I love how much you love it.” Then he’s right back down, and whatever Quentin was planning to say turns into a sharp sound and fingers tightening in Eliot’s hair.</p>
<p>“El,” Quentin breathes, and Eliot shivers at the pure pleasure in his voice. “El, El, fuck. I still can’t fucking decide. <em>Fuck,</em> El--” Eliot would smirk if he could, but he can’t with his mouth moving at a faster pace now, really going to town. “God, wait, I don’t want to come yet, I want more.”</p>
<p>Eliot makes himself let go, reluctantly. “What more?”</p>
<p>Quentin whines wordlessly, squirms, his wet cock rubbing against Eliot’s cheek. Eliot laughs, nuzzles it a little bit, licks it. “That doesn’t fucking help, I can’t <em>think</em>-- oh, fuck, please suck it more-- no, fuck, wait, I’m so, god I want <em>everything</em>, all at once.”</p>
<p>“My greatest regret is that I have but one dick to give,” Eliot quips, then frowns. “Hey, I managed to make a joke. I think the truthies are starting to wear off.”</p>
<p>“Not for me, yet,” Quentin says. “Fuck. Get up here, kiss me, if you stay down there I just want your mouth on me more.”</p>
<p>Eliot complies, kissing Quentin until his lips are tingling and wet. “These slacks are really uncomfortable to have an erection in,” he mutters eventually, shifts himself up just enough to undo his belt and get his fly open while still making out with Quentin. The minute he’s done, Quentin’s hands are sliding under his boxers, trying to find the right angle to wrap around his cock. “Fuck,” Eliot moans into Quentin’s mouth, and squirms until his clothes are around his knees.</p>
<p>“God, your dick is so fucking nice.” Quentin’s too distracted to keep kissing Eliot, craning his neck down to watch the head of Eliot’s cock slip between his fingers, so Eliot moves over to kiss his shoulder, his chest. “You’ve measured, right?”</p>
<p>Eliot struggles against the impulse to answer the question that Quentin is obviously <em>actually</em> asking, because really, they’re doing <em>this</em>? “Hasn’t everyone?” he manages to deflect, and then Quentin slides his thumb over Eliot’s slit and Eliot’s tenuous control vanishes. “Eight inches,” he says. “Give or take.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take, please,” Quentin says, getting into a steady rhythm.</p>
<p>“That was a joke too, maybe yours are wearing off,” Eliot observes, somehow, between gasping and trying not to fuck into Quentin’s hand too much.</p>
<p>“It’s true, too, though.” Quentin laughs against Eliot’s neck, makes a pleased noise when Eliot leans down to tongue over his nipple. “El, fuck, now that I see it I just want it in me so badly.”</p>
<p>“I can,” Eliot says, not whines, definitely not. “I can, please, I want to if you want it. I can also not but <em>fuck</em> I want to.”</p>
<p>Quentin lets go of Eliot’s cock, making Eliot make a truly embarrassing disappointed noise, and grabs for Eliot’s hair again, pulls him up for a kiss. Eliot sinks into it happily. When Quentin loosens his grip, he pulls back a little, turns his face to murmur against Quentin’s cheek: “I kind of like you bossing me around like this. It works for you.”</p>
<p>“I want to get back to a place where you can boss me around again,” Quentin says. “But agreed, this is fun. So, yeah, fuck me? Please?”</p>
<p>All coherent thought leaves Eliot’s head as he imagines sinking into Quentin. “Are you sure,” he grits out, because the most honest impulse in him right now is that he can’t hurt Quentin, he can’t do something that gives him so much pleasure if he’s going to hurt Quentin with it. “Really, really sure?”</p>
<p>“You said I could have whatever I want, El, give me what I <em>want</em>,” Quentin whines, and his hand tightens in Eliot’s hair and he rocks his hips, his cock leaving wet smudges on Eliot’s thigh.</p>
<p>“Fuck, always,” Eliot says, and flings out a hand blindly to the side. There’s a series of thumps from the bedroom and a minor crash and the bottle of lube flies into Eliot’s hand like an iron filing to a magnet. “I’m guessing you’re going to need a lot of prep, so please, don’t touch my cock, I can’t fucking finger you and have your hands on me and keep my shit together.”</p>
<p>“Fine,” Quentin huffs, and Eliot laughs delightedly. Quentin gets his bad leg propped up on the coffee table, bends his other knee, and Eliot kneels over him and pets the insides of his thighs and drips lube directly into the crack of his ass, watching intently as Quentin’s cock jumps. He slides a finger through the slick trail, over Quentin’s asshole, rubbing the lube against the hot skin, before he gives in to Quentin’s squirming and pained little noises and presses in.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, letting his head fall back for a moment. He’s back up quickly, though, watching Eliot’s progress. “I don’t know how you make that look so hot,” he says as Eliot adds more lube. “I used to skip past all the anal stuff in porn, it just didn’t look fun, but this is nothing like that.”</p>
<p>“Porn is fake,” Eliot points out. “This is really my fingers in your ass, so you’re not just seeing it, you can feel it.”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em> I can,” Quentin says, his huge grin (those <em>dimples</em>) turning into an open-mouthed gasp as Eliot keeps his fingers working inside him.</p>
<p>It takes forever, and it doesn’t take nearly long enough, all at the same time. Eliot can only keep Quentin happy with his fingers for so long, and eventually he has to admit that yeah, Quentin’s rolling his hips up onto Eliot’s fingers pretty easily, and he’s slick and relaxed and it’s <em>time</em>, Eliot, fucking fuck me already.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Eliot breathes. “Okay, okay--” his fingers leave Quentin’s body with a wet sound and he gives his cock a brief stroke, just out of habit, to make sure he’s ready to go and that’s almost a huge mistake because he is <em>so</em> hard still. He coats himself in lube once, gingerly, then again for good measure. “I’m nervous, I’m stalling,” he admits.</p>
<p>Quentin reaches out, grabs the knot of Eliot’s loosened tie and hauls him forward. “Eliot,” he says. “If your cock isn’t in me in ten seconds I’m just going to push you down and ride you and that’s definitely going to fuck up my leg.”</p>
<p>Eliot whimpers and lines himself up and starts pushing in.</p>
<p>Quentin holds on tight to his tie the whole time, as Eliot’s cock stretches him wide and then slips inside and keeps going, deeper and deeper.</p>
<p>“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” Eliot whispers. He can’t speak above a whisper, it might break the beautiful moment they’re wrapped in, where he’s inside Quentin and Quentin wants him there and they get to do this forever again.</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Quentin says in a hushed, shaking voice. Eliot tears his eyes away from his cock stretching Quentin’s ass open to check his face for signs of pain, panic, uncertainty. He doesn’t find them. Quentin is blissed out, open-mouthed. Unbelievably gorgeous.</p>
<p>“I wish you could see yourself like this,” Eliot says. “You’re <em>so</em> beautiful. I can’t fucking get enough of it, it’ll never be enough.” Quentin makes a broken noise. “You remember the first time we did this? Or, we, the other we, I guess.”</p>
<p>“We,” Quentin says, breathily but firmly. “We were still us.”</p>
<p>Eliot nods. “You were the most hilarious combination of so nervous and so eager. I never thought I’d <em>actually</em> hear someone say ‘I don’t think it’s gonna fit’ and mean it.”</p>
<p>“I really wasn’t sure!” Quentin groans as Eliot eases into him to the hilt, thighs against the curve of his ass. “I’m really fucking glad it does.”</p>
<p>“You okay?” Eliot asks. His legs are shaking, not because this is a difficult position to hold, exactly, but because it’s difficult to hold and not <em>move</em>.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Quentin says. “Yes, please, fuck I love this. I love you. Eliot, fuck me, I’d have to tell you if I wasn’t okay--” Eliot follows instructions, and Quentin arches his back, making a wordless noise.</p>
<p>It’s so hard to go as slowly as he knows he needs to, but again, the truest thing in him is still <em>I can’t hurt you again</em> and that makes him careful. Quentin pulls him in for a kiss, moaning into his mouth as they rock together, slick and deep and hot. The muscles of his abdomen twitch a little every time Eliot drags slowly out of him, and his cock is so hard it must almost hurt. Eliot wants to touch it, wants to see Quentin touch it, can’t decide.</p>
<p>“Can I stroke you without you coming?” he asks.</p>
<p>“No,” Quentin says. “But I want to come, so I don’t really care, do it--” His body shudders around Eliot’s cock just from saying it. Eliot runs the flat of his palm up Quentin’s cock before he wraps his fingers around it, squeezes near the base to try and keep things going a little longer. Quentin cries out, tries to fuck himself forward onto Eliot’s dick and up into Eliot’s hand, makes the most amazing frustrated face when he can’t do both at once.</p>
<p>“Such a fucking nice handful,” Eliot says mostly to himself, and times his next thrust with a firm stroke. “Is this what you want?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, <em>fuck</em>, oh my <em>god</em> El fucking fuck,” Quentin says, incoherent as always when he’s right on the edge. He holds on longer than Eliot expects him to, his ass tightening around Eliot’s dick by stages and his thighs and stomach clenching with Eliot’s pace. Eliot’s swearing constantly under his breath. Quentin’s got a death grip on his tie and tries to go in for a kiss, once, twice, always breaking away at the last second to make some unbelievably hot noise instead. And then he gives up trying to kiss Eliot and grabs Eliot’s hip hard with his free hand and holds him deep inside as he comes. Eliot sees stars, the feeling of Quentin’s body pulsing all down the length of his cock is incredible, and he really doesn’t have any time to even thrust again before he’s over the edge too.</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” Quentin says emphatically. “I wanted that to go longer, but god it was so fucking good.”</p>
<p>“You want it to go longer, you can’t just come hard on my dick like that, it’s incredible.” Eliot pants, resting his forehead against Quentin’s.</p>
<p>“Nah, I’m going to keep coming hard on your dick,” Quentin says. Eliot makes a pained noise and kisses the smile off his face. </p>
<p>“You mean that, right?” he asks when he can bear to let Quentin come up for air. “You’re still. You still think this is a good idea?”</p>
<p>“Again, it is objectively not,” Quentin says. “And again, I’m doing it anyway. I fucking love you, El, I’m not giving you up. And I am still truthied, I think, I can’t lie to you.” He screws up his face for a second. “I-- do not-- nope, can’t do it. Still truthied.”</p>
<p>“I think I’m almost over it,” Eliot says. He clears his throat. “I did not enjoy what we just did so fucking much, fuck, how is even fucking awkward couch sex with you so damn good?”</p>
<p>Quentin laughs at him, kisses him again, then finally lets go of Eliot’s thoroughly trashed tie and nudges him back. They make identical noises of loss as Eliot draws out.</p>
<p>“I’m so glad there’s enough magic that we can clean up like civilized magicians again,” Eliot says, clearing away lube and come and sweat from their bodies with a quick tut before anything can drip on the couch. Quentin’s stretching out his back, arching, then he pulls Eliot forward again and wriggles until they’re lying on their sides face to face. He sweeps Eliot’s hair away from his eyes with one hand, looks at him with the most open, loving, gorgeous face.</p>
<p>“While I’ve still got you a little bit truthied,” he says, “You still want to also, right? Be together?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Eliot says. “Yes. Yes. So fucking much. I love you, Q. Still scared of it but still want it.” He shivers, feeling himself on the edge of tears again. Is After-Eliot someone who cries after intense sex? That’s going to be embarrassing. “I just think I need to take it a day at a time, because I’m going to be convinced for a long time that it could all end tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“We did the this-could-always-be-over-tomorrow thing already,” Quentin says. “I mean, fucking <em>life</em> is like that, right? Magicians don’t usually die of old age in their sleep. But you’ve got me for as long as you can stand me.”</p>
<p>Eliot kisses Quentin to keep him from seeing the tears start to fall, and Quentin kisses him back, slow and soft. Perfect. Better than perfect.</p>
<p>“Love you, Q,” he says against Quentin’s mouth. “Now can we please move this party to the bed? Some of us have longer legs and don’t enjoy being curled up like human pretzels for long periods of time.”</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” Quentin says cheerfully, and kisses him again. “If we’re moving to the bed I’m going to expect there to be a round two.”</p>
<p>“Two, three, five,” Eliot says. “I’ll find a way to make it happen. You get whatever you want, and I mean it.”</p>
<p>Quentin smiles wickedly, dimples melting Eliot’s heart. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into with that promise.”</p>
<p>“Mm, I think I do,” Eliot says. “And it’s going to be amazing.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>fin</em>
</p>
<p>Thank you once again to M, the loveliest beta out there.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Bargaining summary: Shortly after 4x05 Escape from the Happy Place, Quentin makes a deal with the Monster (in Eliot’s body) that they can have sex if the Monster will stop killing so many people. The deal quickly spirals completely out of control, with the Monster breaking down Quentin's resistance until he's guiltily enjoying it. Eventually the team manages to defeat the Monster and get Eliot back. Now, although he and Q both want to be together, the consequences of what the Monster did to Q seem like they may prevent that from ever happening.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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